Kandy Killer

October 15th

I despise people. Not the individuals dear to me—no, I don't consider them to be people. The human species disgusts me. I'd much rather be a dog—perhaps a cat or a horse. Humans take, and take, and take, not worrying about who they hurt in the process. Do you understand how vile that is? People steal and kill, all for either the money or the satisfaction—possibly even just the thrill of knowing they had done something immoral. I would do anything to get my hands on those people. To make sure they know exactly how their actions feel when they are affecting others. Nothing—and I mean nothing—would give me any more contentment than doing just that. 

"Annie! Why haven't you finished my schedule yet?" my boss shouts, getting my name incorrect once again. I've been working in this publishing company as his assistant for four months—you'd expect he would know my name by now. 

"My apologies, Jeremy," I say with the most realistic smile I can muster upon my face. "Some clients have yet to get back to me about the dates they can meet, so until then I can't put them on the schedule." My boss shakes his head and growls. But honestly, how is any of this my fault? I can't run through all the world searching for the clients to ask them personally to get back to me about dates. That's not how life functions, Jeremy dear. 

"Get them to answer, for God's sake," he snaps at me. "You're my assistant—I shouldn't have to do everything myself, Anne." 

"Kathrine," I correct quietly. He looks twisted at me, so I add, "My name—it's Kathrine. Not 'Annie' or 'Anne'. Kathrine.". He grumbled and rolls his eyes, dismissing my words with a rapid wave of his hand. 

After Jeremy makes a theatrical, huffing exit out of my box of an office, I plop down into my rolling chair with a sigh. The chair squeaks and rattles as I place my full weight into it, and reflexively I clutch the sides tightly. Of course, they would never spend anything higher than the value of a pencil on me, or my miserable office. 

I suppose my work situation is partly my fault. As a young, impressionable girl, I'd been told there was no place for my imagination in the world. I would grow up to be a doctor, a waitress, possibly even an accountant—but never anything involving my imagination. Those would get me nowhere. Perhaps I should've listened because literary work is not all sunshine and rainbows like it's made out to be on television. Prepare yourself—the revelation is...unsettling. It's shown online and in movies that there is nothing better than being a writer. Do you want to make millions? Write a best-selling novel, sweetie, and I swear I'll make you a star. But what happens when no one likes your book? Wait, your topic is upsetting readers? Well now, my dear, you're in a pickle. Your story's plot has a hole? Good job, your query letter was rejected by the agent that could've gotten you somewhere. 

See how incredibly irritating this business is? Now try being the editor or the agent. Try dealing with all the writers that think they're the next Stephen King. Because we all know that one person is not even close to that, especially on their first copy of the manuscript—before the editors go through and work their magic. Try working with people with sticks up their bums who never take the time to be mindful—these people, they're the ones who wanted to be a writer so badly that they'd do anything to get into a position that was even close to that. So they ended up here. Some of them love their jobs with all their hearts, and I respect that more than anything. But others, like myself, would like to stick a pole right through their boss' ear and right out the one opposite it. 

After waiting a few minutes, ensuring Jeremy was far gone and not planning to barge into my office once more—I retrieve my phone from my purse. On the screen alone, is a Tinder notification: Congratulations! You got a match!

Romantic relationships—what's the point of them? Fun? Many people hear that in their lifetime they should marry and start a family of their own. So sure, the human brain is programmed to want to reproduce, keeping the species alive as long as possible. But today, that's not exactly a person's primary focus. Everyone wants to feel that someone desires them. That they occupy so much of someone's brain that they can't go through the day without thinking of them. And people can believe that this actually happens—and sure, there are cases in which it does. But nine times out of ten, they do not reciprocate the feeling.

Romance—well, let's just say, it's not one of my many talents. Within my twenty-four years of being alive, I've been in four relationships—each ending terribly. Whether it was cheating or them just not being able to stand me, I've been the one that was broken up with, never the other way around. Even if I had hated someone terribly, I'd stay in that relationship because the guilt of leaving would swallow me whole. So, I'm like a rug—I allow people to step all over me with their dirty shoes and all without making so much as a sound.

But hey—who knows? Maybe things will be different. Maybe I'll find that missing one time and discover that one person who feels just as strongly about me as I feel for them. 

Or—maybe not...