I know I frequently position myself as the hapless victim in my stories—what with the prevalence of stalkers, weirdos, and unstable coworkers I deal with on a regular basis. But I feel the need to be perfectly honest with you guys and admit that plenty of signs point to me as being a serial killer in the making.
I hadn’t really put that much thought into it until I was discussing wedding venues with my friend, and future bridesmaid, L.
“You should get married at the duck pond, where we burned that Bratz doll.”
This isn’t exactly the sort of input you usually expect when planning your nuptials, but it did grant a rather bizarre wave of nostalgia. I’d buried the memory of the Bratz doll deep in the caverns of my mind, ensuring that if I’m ever asked under oath about whether I’ve doused a doll in lighter fluid, placed it on a large stone, and set it ablaze, I can honestly answer: “Not that I recall.”
I think we were making some sort of statement on the horrors of these skanky little platform-wearing, cellphone-wielding dolls, but I can’t be sure. It seems like a lot of trouble and possibly a waste of money, but 2003 was a much simpler time. Either that or I was just in the pre-killing stages of becoming the inspiration for a future primetime TV show. Be assured, this wasn’t the first time.
As a young child, me and my best friend Peeves had a favorite make-believe scenario wherein we were pet store owners. Our shop was called “All Pets” and our slogan was “Sorry, No Refunds.” We enjoyed singing and screaming this at our every imaginary customer, as each of our pets met a very tragic end just after being sold.
I don’t want to leave anything ambiguous here: We were perfectly healthy little 3rd graders from suburbia who spent our playtime devising all manner of torture for her unwitting Beanie Babies. Taking great care not to damage the mint-condition TY tags, we forced baby whales to live in too-small cages and watched our flamingos fight to the death. No animal was safe from our cruelty, as many a hedgehog or fox met a swift death from a high fall. All the while we would clutch fistfuls of Monopoly money and cackle as we insisted “Sorry, No Refunds!”
I can hear you all coming to my defense, trying to dismiss this as some sort of weird childhood phase I went through, but there have been recent events. Just after I moved back from China, Shleisel and I spent an evening at my brothers’ house while he and his family were out of town. Instead of behaving like normal 20-somethings, we eschewed the liquor and other fineries and decided to play with their kids’ toys, staging them in all manner of violent scenarios.
And lets not forget that less than a year ago I not only drank whiskey with little plastic babies in it, but I then experimented to see if they would melt in a fire. Can someone please analyze what this means? Actually, don’t. Because it’s pretty obvious. I’m going to become a serial killer.
Did you do anything this bizarre when you were a kid? Do you think your own children are future killers? What’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever set on fire?
Want to keep in touch? Find me on Facebook.