It’s very rare that I wish bad things to happen to people.
OK, all right, so that’s a lie. Most people piss me off, gross me out, and all around just make me want to quit touring with “Up With People”. And I frequently try to make bad things happen to them by sheer force of the telepathic powers it’s becoming increasingly clear that I don’t possess. Alas, I’m no Carrie (although I do look stunning while drenched in pig’s blood and have really nice dirty pillows).
It’s a shame, though, because I’d really like to hurt some people without having to actually touch them or go out of my way to order expensive implements with which to inflict the damage. And, sadly, looks can’t kill. If they could, it’d make things a lot easier on me and the outrageous poseur-princess who was showing off her special brand of idiocy while dancing on the treadmill this morning. Yes, that’s right. Dancing. Not just prancing prettily. Not just lip-synching. No, this was all out dancing. Like for an audition.
Dancing on the treadmill (not on the ceiling, a la Lionel Richie). Dancing on an incline, backward. And, of course, facing me, and only six feet away. Dancing complete with arm movements, spins, kicks, syncopation, plastic grin, wide eyes, and jazz hands.
So given that the daggers leading from my eyes to her body weren’t sharp enough, and I left my cyanide at home (I hate when I switch purses!), I had no choice but to kill her with kindness.
“You are the best! I love what you’re doing on the treadmill! It’s so fun and quirky! And you look so pretty when you do that cute little dip thing with your shoulders! The shimmying is neat too! Would you mind showing me how to do it someday? I love your outfit! You’re not an asshole at all!”
It was a perfect crime. Because no one will ever suspect me.