When I was born, I had two choices and only a few minutes to decide, so I had to do some fast-ass research about each option: 1. Get assigned to the prestigious Housewife Track; or 2. Become a psychopath and destroy all goodness in the world.
Housewife.
You serious? Wanna see me rocket-vomit?
Seeing my reaction, they placed a tv screen in front of me and played a video of typical housewife duties, crap like cooking for your husband, cleaning toilets (and your husband’s shit), changing diapers, grocery shopping, buying gifts for your husband’s family and friends and asshole boss, and getting no thanks in return.
Glad I saw that. Thank you. Next.
My visit to the library was better than crack. After looking up all the famous psychos in history, my choice was clear. I checked the box to the left of Psychopath and was then removed from my mother’s arms and placed in a small FedEx shipping box that already had a shipping label all revved up to go.
All someone had to do was shove a pacifier in my mouth, add extra bubble wrap around me, seal me up with plenty of packing tape, and toss me down a delivery chute to an awaiting FedEx truck.
Days later, I arrived at my initial destination, a training center for psychopaths and their handlers, plus other personnel who would later provide psycho-logistics and general support.
In my formative years, they shoved knowledge and details and pre-cooked experience down my throat like I was that goose. You know, Ms. Future Foi Gras.
Years later, having passed all my exams and graduated with highest distinction, they sent me to the next phase of psychopath training, a two-year tour in the field, the real world. I’d never actually seen the real world before, so this was a sunny experience that blushed my cheeks and made me crack one of those one-mm smiles.
In the real world, the air was cool, clean and crisp, the water tasted sweet, the food wasn’t bland like in psycho camp, the people . . . the people were uncharacteristically un-psycho. They smiled using all their facial muscles. They laughed so hard their bellies shook like tasteless jello. They talked to each other in eager rattattat-rattattat fashion. Love was in the air.
So this was life in the real world. My new home. And as a psychopath, it was my job to take all I could, lie to everyone in my path, steal with impunity, cheat on any tax return and at bingo, pinch little babies until they cried and do it when their mommies weren’t looking.
Yes, my dear suckers, I was a newly minted psycho, loosed on the real world, and I was gonna fuck it up as much as possible, lest I receive a poor Psycho Efficiency Evaluation (PEE) from my superiors and get canned from the program. Probably get sent back for retraining. As a fuckn housewife.
Oh, how that would suck.
Nope, this psycho-chick’s PEE would be 100s across the board, a perfect score. After all, it’s the psycho way of getting ahead in life: take all I could, lie to everyone in my path, steal with impunity, cheat on any tax return and at bingo, pinch little babies until they cried and do it when their mommies weren’t looking.
Don’tcha go telling me my amygdala needs a recharge, either. Mine is perfect as is. In fact, there’re no abnormalities under my neural hood. I became a psychopath by choice and I don’t regret it.
Try it sometime. You might find it useful, if not delish.
[It’s fiction, stupid.]
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Tripsy South is a freestyle writer and editor. She’s the author of the quirky novel, SUICIDE TANGO: My Year Killin’ It With A Shrink.