I write some fairly fancy, fucked-up fiction now and then; appreciating that doesn’t make you broken any more than enjoying Raising Arizona makes your insides a rocky place where my seed can find no purchase. I feel like it’s possible for a relatively normal girl to be a fan of my work in small doses, so no, it’s not at all a definitive test.
But the life you describe isn’t exculpatory, either. Being able to act like a decent, functional girl on the outside doesn’t mean you aren’t a twisted, conflicted, pathetic pervert on the inside. If broken bitches couldn’t be interesting, useful people, then there’d be no point in owning them.