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Gloomy Powdered Diet Mix
Happiness is illusionary. The window should prove that. Looking out it. Watching the bugs crawl.
Poison. Venefica means poisoner. It also means witch. That line in the Bible, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" was translated wrong. It was "Thou shalt not suffer a poisoner to live." Those who poison the wells, whether they be the real water source or the metaphorical one. People who went around ruining things, spreading poison, causing the bugs to turn on each other.
Turning life into a giant Roach Motel™. People check in, but they have to get a certificate of mental competence to check out. And who could pass that kind of test these days?
If you don't doubt your sanity, you are suspect.
Venefica [not her real name] ordered some lingerie from Victoria's Secret and stood at the window, waiting for a lover to appear. Not any lover she'd known nor had, but a brand new one, who was supposed to arrive in a blue-and-white taxi and rescue her from her miserable existence. In her new red push-up bra, she was entitled to that sort of service.
Venefica [not her real name] drank her gloomy powdered diet mix and followed the advice of Cosmo. She wanted to be married. That was a goal. But what then? To attain the married state, she'd please her mother and her friends who dreamed the way that she did, but it wasn't an attainment, merely a plateau, and what would her dreams be then? How to undetectedably add arsenic to her husband's pot roast after a year or two of marriage when he ceased to even notice that she'd bought an even newer and more interesting variety of push-up bra, when he valued his sleep rather than rooting around in her mysterious crevices?
"I want to attain perfect boredom," Venefica should have said. Rescue her from one boredom to put her in another. Life was a series of boredoms, punctuated by cruel tricks of excitement that never lasted and disentegrated wretchedly. And, bored, thoughts naturally turned to poisoning. Your loved ones, your community, your spirit, yourself. It didn't matter which, and the most adept could do all of these -- and many more -- at once. The most adept justified it by citing how their rescuers had disappointed them.
If you don't doubt your sanity, you are suspect.
If you don't poison your suspects, you cannot be Agatha Christie.
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