I didn't mean to kill her. Sure, I wished her dead lots of times and sometimes I imagined how I would do it if I were ever to grow a pair.
But when I killed her, I wasn't actually trying to.
Not that I'm sorry she's dead. Far from it. If you could see the smile on my face right now you'd think I just got great news.
We got all the cancer.
Your wife delivered a healthy baby boy!
The Cubs won the World Series!
Your mom is dead doesn't seem to belong on that list.
Before you get all judgey on me know this: there is no motive, no life insurance or great inheritance.
Of course, once I figure out how to use this chainsaw I just bought, there won't be a need to waste any money on a proper funeral. So there is that, I guess.
When I was a kid I saw a guy fall off a ladder with a chainsaw. He nicked his leg but, not so bad he required stitches or anything. It made me afraid of chainsaws so I'm a little nervous about how this is going to turn out.
What if I cut through her and don't even realize I might have cut myself? Her blood mingling with mine, that's a gross thought. God knows what diseases she had. I keep telling myself, it has to be done.
She's really dead. This is so fucking cool.
Just because I didn't mean to do it, doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it. Sometimes you don't mean to eat that extra piece of wedding cake, doesn't mean it isn't delicious.
I have a taste for a thing. I don't know if I'll do it again, this time on purpose, but I might try it if I get away with this.