An Accidental Killer

Sensitive content: Unexpected death

I had to win that stupid fifth grade writing contest. “When she’s a famous author, she’ll buy us a mansion to grow old in!” My parents are wildly delusional dreamers. No pressure.

Luckily, I have other skills that pay my bills while I pursue the ever-elusive publishing contract. But let me be clear about one thing: I never set out to be a serial killer. That's not the skill that pays my bills. I’m more of an accidental killer. But people died just the same. To be fair, these people had it coming. Let me explain.

It all started with a diary. Each time I pulled out a pen and that little red book stashed under a heaping mound of socks and underwear in my top bureau drawer, my daily adventures and mishaps just flowed onto its pages. And what happened next? The universe simply took it from there.

Dwayne:

Dear Diary: I’m in Las Vegas to attend a conference with colleagues. This town is a lot to take in. A whole lot. Today the VP of sales, Dwayne, offered to buy me a ticket to go to Cirque du Soleil with him and his wife. I’m shocked a VP even acknowledged I exist, much less invited me to go to a show with him. It was amazing! I was worried his wife wouldn’t like him paying for my ticket, but she was lovely.

Dear Diary: Dwayne’s wife flew home today, and he invited me to go to another show with him. “His wife-flew-home-today” was a huge clue, which, unfortunately, I completely missed. During the ridiculous show, he put his arm around my shoulder like we were teenagers on a hot date. I froze in disbelief for two entire hours. It didn’t help that the show was a musical. On roller skates. I was completely bewildered at what exactly I was experiencing—on both fronts. And I was getting more nauseated with each passing moment. I mean … Dwayne? Really? He’s twice my age. And he has a very charming (and unsuspecting) wife at home. After the show, Dwayne insisted on walking me back to my room. I had to duck, dodge, and weave to avoid him kissing me goodnight. Gross. And now I must go to the office every day and pretend he doesn’t exist, for all eternity. Or until I find a new job.

Dear Diary: Well, no need to find a new job. Dwayne is dead. I’m in shock. He died from complications following a “routine” surgery. Honestly, I’m feeling a whole lot more schadenfreude than I know I should. Why am I smiling right now? Stop it.

Tim:

Dear Diary: We have a new manager from corporate. He’s wound SUPER tight. He works remotely every Friday and checks up on us by calling each of our desk phones between 4:30-5:00 p.m. every single Friday afternoon. So, I take his calls and regale him with incredibly detailed stories about everything I’m working on … and then some. By the time I’m done, he can’t wait to get off the phone. LOL. Mission accomplished.

Dear Diary: Unfortunately … and I take full responsibility for the fact that I have zero control over my facial expressions … Tim has internalized that I do not like him at all. No sir. Not one bit. This will not go well for me.

Dear Diary: I’ve now tolerated (and documented) far too many unnecessarily personal and rude comments from Tim. I reported him to HR today. They’re not doing anything about it. Because of course they’re not. Time for me to find a new job.

Dear Diary: Well, no need to find a new job. I can’t believe this is happening again. Tim is dead. He died from a terminal illness no one in the office even knew he had. But what a pain in my ass he was. Death is such a permanent solution to such a simple problem. So, why am I ever so slightly satisfied right now? Stop it! Inappropriate!

Uri:

Dear Diary: Finally, some good news! I’m working with a new manager, Uri, on a product we're launching at the end of the year. I’m drafting go-to-market plans and press releases, and he’s even trusting me to train the sales team. My career is finally going somewhere! What an exhilarating change of pace after all the horrible people I’ve worked for to date.

Dear Diary: Uri nominated his team for a corporate achievement award that would mean big cash payouts and a trip to a tropical destination for each winning team member. The team won. And guess what? My name wasn’t even on the list. After all that work. My colleagues who did absolutely nothing WERE on the list. Thanks, Uri. Thanks a lot. Once again, it looks like it’s time for me to find a new job.

Dear Diary: Well, here we go again. No need to find a new job. I can’t believe it. Is this really happening? Uri is dead. An avid mountain climber, he died in a 3300-foot fall on Mt. Rainier. Well, that’s unfortunate and untimely. It was just a stupid award that omitted my name! I didn’t want him to die over it! And such a horrific and unexpected death no less.

Claire:

Dear Diary: Oh no, no, no, no, no. A manager at work, Claire, is gossiping to my colleagues about me, telling them I have “misplaced animosity” toward her. Girl, I asked you a simple clarifying question about a project and this is how you react? This is not going to end well...for you.

I don’t know how to tell you this Claire, but now that you’ve done this and it’s officially inked in my little red diary, you’re going to die a most untimely and unfortunate death, and there’s not a single thing I can do to stop it. I don’t know what mythical powers my diary possesses that keeps making this happen. But it’s coming for you. It’s coming...