My Name Is Mark David Chapman

  My name is Mark David Chapman. You may think you know who I am, but you don't really know me at all. Sure, the name rings a bell, who wouldn't know the name of the man who shot someone who was bigger than Jesus. People think they know all sorts of things that they don't really know much about though. Hell, you probably thought the world was going to end December 21, 2012, if not on January 1, 2000. You probably believe that margarine is healthy, that the flu vaccine uses a live virus, that global warming will end the world, and that Al Gore invented the internet. I bet you believe everything you hear on the internet or while glancing at the National Inquirer while waiting in line at the supermarket. The truth of it all, however, is very little of what we hear is real, the things we hear have more to do with selling society an image of what the world looks like, what it could look like in the future, but not what the world really is.
  By now, you are either sitting there shaking in your boots, or thinking to yourself, ' this guy really is loony.' Either way, I can see the look in your eyes, I can hear the silence as you hold your breath, I can see the beads of sweat forming on your brow. I've piqued your interest; you want to hear what I have to say. It's human nature, we are nosy creatures. We love drama, mystery, conspiracy. You want me to tell you that John Lennon was not the man people love to believe he was. I can sense that you already had your doubts about him.
  The real John Lennon was not the feeble, seemingly gentle soul who sang to people to 'give peace a chance' and 'imagine all the people living life in peace.' He was not the sap who crawled into bed with Yoko Ono on an international stage, nor the loving father who cradled little Sean delicately in his arms. Rather, the real John is better represented through seeing his arguments with his former bandmates, hearing his crazy ramblings about an FBI conspiracy to kick him out of the country and hush his enlightenment of the common man, and through his treatment of his first son, Julian. John was no hero. The true hero is me, for having the courage to look the devil in the eyes and pull the trigger.
  But I am getting ahead of myself. I am probably losing you, so why don't I just tell you my story. It began on August 30, 1972. I was seventeen and my mother had recently sent me from our home in Georgia to New York to stay with her sister, Claudia. Aunt Claudia was a really fun person, and my parents convinced her to watch me for a few weeks because they were sick of my skipping school, taking drugs, and blaring 'hippie' music. Claudia lived alone since her husbands mysterious disappearance and her son's commitment to the Willborrow State School Mental Institution. Anyway, Aunt Claudia had acquired two tickets to a benefit concert at Madison Square Garden featuring Elaphant's Memory with John and Yoko. Originally she was going to attend with her boyfriend Phil, but at the last minute he was called out of town on business, and I got the extra ticket by default.