Well, my upstairs bathroom flooded so I’m venting my frustrations the usual way, with the added bonus of only using items found in the washroom. Which is good because I need to clean out the whole room.
You know, when I said I wanted a little more excitement, I didn’t mean being woken up by a bursting pipe at 3am on a Friday and then spending 7 hours with a man who defines the dirty plumber stereotype. If he wasn’t the cheapest and fastest man I could find at a moment’s notice, I would have slit his throat. At least I wouldn’t have to stare at his asshole while he sat under my sink and crawled around my carpet, alternating between leering at me and telling me he’s “close to finding the problem.”
The problem is you’re a fucking idiot and I could’ve had this fixed in a few hours if I was willing to pay a little extra but instead, I had no running water all weekend and you’re still an idiot.
But in any case, I started killing with bathroom items on Sunday and I’ve only had two opportunities to stretch my legs but they’ve been fun.
My new favourite, which I’ll definitely be coming back to, is a little something called Hydrogen Peroxide. Common household item, I keep it in my medicine cabinet. Drinking the stuff can be lethal – and trust me, it’s been a handy helper over the years – but I tried to administer my poison of choice in a different way. So what if it’s technically cheating my own rule; I was too frustrated to bother with.
Did you know that administering hydrogen peroxide straight into the blood stream creates clots that reach the brain, causing a stroke? If you inject it into their eyeball they’ll scream and run into a wall so hard they cause a concussion on top of the trauma and die from a combination of wounds. Of course, I had to dump a whole bottle into my victim but it created the desired effect and it actually helped me calm down after that god damn, fucking…
Focusing on such a precise activity, like putting a needle into a vein really calmed me down.
Murder is such a precise art. Even when you’re being frantic and messy, you still have to hit bone or skin in a specific way in order to get the desired result. You can explore new ways of getting there (like what I’m doing now) but it’s just another way of getting to the end. As long as brain function stops. The rest is my own personal playground.
My second kill on Monday was a little less convoluted. Well…
How convoluted is ‘death by toilet seat’?
The result of my very frustrating weekend was the need for a new toilet. I ended up with the old one in my trunk and my husband in the passenger seat on our way to the dump. All it took was one little detour and I got to cross something off my list that I never knew was there. “Bludgeoned to death by an old toilet seat”: such a beautiful sentence; and then everything went to the city dump. It was all very quick. But I got to spend a few hours alone with my husband on a murder trip. That was nice. Kind of like the old days. Like our old date nights. A little less handsy but nice.
I think that’s the real indication that we’re getting old. We still want each other but we don’t tease as much. It’s not as reckless and fun. Jason has not been traumatized by us in months. That’s just irresponsible.
You know what? I’m going to go surprise my husband on his lunch break. I refuse to grow old that way. I want to always desire my husband sexually in inappropriate places. If I don’t have that, what else is there but death and destruction?
Alright, I’ll leave you with the image of me taking my husband in the closet of a police station.
As always, dear readers,