To kill or not to kill?

I have been trying to write since Sunday but I can not seem to complete a sentence. The problem is I have been in the foulest mood. Every time I try to write the blackness overwhelms me and I have to stop. So if you came here looking for sweetness and light or God forbid something funny then please toddle off to someone else’s blog cause you are not going to find it here. Not today and probably not all week. I am far too busy planning the murder.

Poison? No. It’s too hard to find. I’m fairly sure you can’t find it on eBay. And it’s not like you can just go to The Poison Store. “Hello. How are you? I’d like a pint of potassium cyanide please. Do you take American Express?” And it’s too easy to identify. I’ve watched CSI. Gil Grissom would say “The victim’s breath smells like bitter almonds. It must have been potassium cyanide. Catherine, check the records and CCTV tapes at The Poison Store and see who bought potassium cyanide lately.” I would be caught, tried, convicted, and served my own lethal injection cocktail in no time at all. No. Definitely, not poison.

Car wreck? I could always cut the brake lines. The brakes would fail as the car rounds a curve and then plow into a pole holding high voltage power lines which would drop and voila,…electrocution. No. That’s not a sure thing. The car might not crash at all, much less into a power line. Besides I know nothing about brake lines. Where are they any way, in the trunk? No, I’d have to call AAA and I don’t think that is part of their roadside assistance program. And they have my card number and keep records too. I would be caught, tried, convicted, and electrocuted in no time at all. No. Scratch the cut brake line idea.

Gun? Knife? No. I don’t own a gun and besides I might accidentally shoot myself. If I used a knife I’d have to get rid of it. I have expensive chef knives and I’d hate to lose one. I don’t think a butter knife would work and I don’t own a Ginsu. You have to get up close and personal to use either one which means I’d need a disguise. It’s already spring. I bet you can’t find a pastel ski mask anywhere. I would be caught, tried, convicted, and shot by a firing squad in no time at all. Or maybe Big Bubba would stab me with a shank the first time I said I had a headache when he wanted sex before I ever went to trial. No. Guns and knives are out.

I may have to rethink this whole murder thing. I probably don’t have time to plan it carefully, much less carry it out before I leave on vacation. And besides, Johnny Cochran just died. Although Robert Blake’s attorney is available I hear. No. No. Maybe I won’t commit murder after all.

I mean it’s not like she meant to do it.
Even trained professionals have bad days.
She did drive all the way out to my house on a Sunday.
It was her day off and it was a favor to me.
After all I did serve her all those shots with beer chasers before she started.
And she didn’t charge me…

Still, a bad haircut justifies murder don’t you think?