I’m Sorry I Murdered My Boyfriend For Not Reading My Stories
If it pleases the Court, I’d like to say a few words in my defense.
Your Honor, I’m not a violent person. I’ll pick up a caterpillar and carry it to the other side of the road if that’s where it’s headed. I won’t even ask questions like, “Why are you trying to cross the road? You’re a caterpillar. Are there not enough trees or whatever on this side of the road? Why, fuzzy worm, why?”
I’ll pick up a toad to save it from the lawn mower (but not a frog. Frogs are on their own). If I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll transport a snake to a location more amenable to its way of life than, say, my kitchen, which is where I stepped on it with my bare foot.
After I stop screaming, I can see that we’re all just trying to survive on this big, blue, cursed marble hurtling through space at 1.3 million miles per hour.
I’m sorry, where was I? Oh, right, murdering my boyfriend.
See, Judge, my boyfriend doesn’t read or clap or… I’m sorry, I’m getting a little verklempt… or comment on my stories. Even though I’ve told him exactly one million times that by reading slowly and commenting, I reap some small monetary reward.
Still, he failed to read or comment. It was like a pizza cutter to the jugular, Your Honor, which is oddly enough how he died.
Sometimes he would comment privately via email or with words coming out of his mouth. But I can’t buy a giant box of low-fat ramen noodles on Amazon with emails or spoken words, now can I?
Your Honor, my boyfriend, may he rest in pieces, was hitting me in my most tender spot — my bank account.
To prime the pump, so to speak, sometimes I asked him to read one of my stories in front of me. His lips would curl upwards in some approximation of enjoyment, but my work often failed to elicit even a titter, let alone a chuckle, a chortle, a guffaw, a peal, a bray, or a shriek of laughter.