My House

The first thing you see walking through the door is the head of my mother nailed to the wall.
Go a little further, take a left, you're in the bathroom.
They don't exactly sell blood by the bucket at the local convenience store, so I hope you don't mind a cold bath.
Onward, to my bedroom. You see what's left of my last lover.
She was expensive, but well worth it.
Entrails, draped over my bed like a sheet. Her decomposing limbs hanging from my fan blades, turning slowly in the hot, stagnant air. I have her rotting head on my bureau. It's for decoration..
yeah, decoration, that's it..
As you can see, all the curtains in the house are not curtains at all, but the flesh and skin from from the people I've killed over the years.
Yeah, the bugs get difficult sometimes, but with all this putrefaction to feast on, they rarely bother me.
Into my kitchen.
I'm no cannibal freak.
I drink soup out of skulls; spoons are made of kneecaps attached to ulnae; my strainer is a intricately, and tightly woven net of hair; one of my spatulas is actually a sternum.
Where to next?
Ah, yes! The den.
You've already noticed the fireplace? It's where I put all the leftover parts after I tear my victims apart. I don't need an A/C, the hotter it is, the better the bodies smell. Radio, I love you? HA! I have no use for a radio. I entertain myself by whittling the bones of those unfortunate souls who have crossed my path.
It's a small house, yes..
But I'm adding to it everyday.
You sir, will make a fine piece of furniture.