I was 13-years-old or so, still getting used to my awkward position with middle school’s toxic, judgement and drama-laden environment. The intimate social circle of my elementary classroom – the only social life I had known – was far behind me. Smosh and Ray William Johnson, with their obnoxious chipperness, had just started to not be funny. Then there was the other confusion of puberty, growing angst, and edginess. I became fascinated with morbidity, and the pseudo-traumatizing experience of creepypasta intimately entertaining.