Don’t Tell Mom There’s a Serial Killer in My Office

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There is a woman in my office building who is silent. Dead. Silent. I’ve never heard her speak. I’ve never heard her foot steps. Her hair doesn’t move. I have no reasonable assumption to conclude other than the fact that she’s a serial killer.

This is not just because I’ve been watching reruns of Dexter. Although, he has given me some valuable information on what to look for in a sociopath… I bet she has blood slides hidden in her air conditioner too.

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Serial Killer Lady arrives at the same time I do every single morning which means she’s clearly stalking me as her next victim. Probably because I stare at her with awe and terror every day while she rides the elevator up a single floor. She’s probably saving all her energy to cause blunt force trauma to someone’s head.

Each morning she wears the same dark sunglasses, trench coat, leather gloves, and structured, square Kate Spade bag that would hold its shape in a tornado. She’s probably hiding crazy eyes and any bodily signs of a struggle.

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Sometimes she brings unidentifiable objects in plastic grocery bags which I assume are her murder weapons. And her hair always looks the same and it never moves. It either doesn’t grow or she trims it every night before she goes to bed and then lays down in a pillow hair mold filled with extra hold hair spray. This woman’s appearance is meticulous. I bet she has Patrick Bateman’s morning routine down to the tighty whities – and his evening routine for that matter. She’s probably returning some video tapes right at this very moment…

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One day I’d like to follow her home. I can only expect to find eerie neatness and an alphabetized medicine cabinet. Of course this is all probably what she’s wanted all along, and will already have a kill room waiting for me when I get there…

 

Pray for me…

 

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