I can never think straight when there are kids running around.
Like intolerable house flies, they make it a point to pester and annoy the wits out of you when all you want to do is sit back, relax, and enjoy a nice cup of hot chocolate on a very cold night. The only difference between them and real flies is that when you actually try to kill them, you will be the one to end up fifty feet under. Maybe even more.
Similar to how I have always wanted to brutally mutilate select spoiled brats (no blood relatives—okay, maybe one or two), I often fantasize on killing most teachers that I utterly despise and even spent a whole day planning a would-have-been-perfect murder on one occasion—no worries, it was never carried out. (I might one of these days, but I need accomplices. If interested, please contact 09155493004) Sadistic tendencies aside, it is an interesting, if not productive way of venting out anger and pent-up frustration.
On a completely unrelated topic, Annie Dillard, a creative non-fictionist and a good one at that, compared a written piece to a lion that needs to be tamed. That makes perfect sense, but I wonder: how can I, a measly rabbit, tame the king of the beasts? Even I, a feline person, would think twice of approaching a lion. At times, I worry that my deserted works and the characters I took pleasure on killing will someday take form and come back to exact vengeance on their creator, like a carnivore out to tear apart and devour its prey. It freaking gives me the chills. I blame Miss Dillard.
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