I don’t know beans about sports, but I’m a die-hard fan of modern psychology. Therefore, when they are finished tossing dirt on my casket, and throwing the subsequent after-party to celebrate my departure, I at once request that my vast fortune, sprawling estate and remaining family members be rush-delivered to the accounts receivable department of Ronprasad Press. These inspiring demigods of publishing and psychoanalysis are the exemplary parents of a little known, (nonetheless lip smacking) periodical titled: Criminally Insane Thinking Today. Or, good old CITT as it is known by friends. Of the three dozen glossy magazines, I shamelessly acquire each month. Nothing else this side of the alter can have me shivering outside in my Shady Character PJ’s patiently waiting for arrival of the coveted postmen. A gentleman who, on these days I akin to royalty and always angle with a ten spot.

Perhaps it was the brief period of time I had the misfortune of knowing my father that initially sparked my interest in the criminally insane. But good old dad wasn’t criminally insane. Just plane out of his mind. Whatever the case, it has become an unbridled obsession to understand what makes otherwise ordinary people suddenly go completely Koo Koo. Consequently, I stumbled upon the People Magazine of psychotics. Each month the publication profiles a currently detained psychopath. Then respected psychologists take turns weighing in their convoluted hypotheses on what made this bird fly out of its tree. Somehow, they always managed to mention how unfair it is Dr. Phil makes much more money than they do.

The current issue features a case of a perfectly normal, psychologically healthy young woman. She used to be at least. Due to working a job she hated just a little too long, the poor thing was driven to permanent insanity. Excerpts from the dairy of Zoë Fannelli tell the heartbreaking saga that could happen to any one of us.

Wednesday / at the Plantation … (work)

Dear Diary,

I am about as pissed off and fed up as a (still) sane woman can be. How a nice girl from Ohio wound up as a legal secretary I will never know. Okay, so I’m not that nice anymore. But I really don’t think it’s my fault dammit. (Brooding) Tomorrow marks eight years of living in New York and five slaving at this god-forsaken hell-mouth. Shit man, I should have a record deal by now. I am supposed to be Norah Jones. And. that’s not jazz either sister. I sing jazz. Ella, Pearl, Billie. Listen to me. I have a good paying job I hate, a great apartment that is way too expensive, no boyfriend and don’t want one. Only 29 and already I am jaded and bitter.

Okay little miss diary, I will try to explain. I absolutely loathe this job. I hate it here with such a passion, I sometimes think it could drive me to murder. The Evil One is at lunch, so all is clear for the moment. This morning is like all others. Anchored to my dreadfully dull, battered desk; an unsightly prehistoric design tragedy that is strategically located in a dreary alcove directly in front of Mr. Ishkoniann’s door. That is, if there was a door. This means my every gesture is under his constant surveillance. Girlfriend, this myopic swine works in an office that in reality is an overstuffed death trap reeking of stale cigar smoke, cheap bourbon and cat piss. And if your heartstrings haven’t been ripped out enough, my cubicle is spitting-distance from the foyer. This of makes me the stand-in receptionist the firm is to budget conscience to employ. But for now I must run, the Xerox machine is out of toner, ya know, real work.

Friday / 8:30am / the penitentiary

Dear Diary,

Last night we were at Jane’s Studio, which was recently remodeled and looks uglier than it did before. I swear that woman has the worst taste. Anyway, I was waiting to do a vocal and surfing the net. And I discovered the third most common cause of women committing homicide is work related. Women all across the this great land of ours are assassinating their bosses. Can you believe it? I sure can. But I still don’t think a shitty job is ever justification for murder, that is, unless the person worked here.

I have decided to make my entries at the secretary stable since there is no real work that needs to be done. Of course, it doesn’t matter what I do as long as it looks like I’m doing something. Bubbles Goldstein has this down to an absolute science. Or maybe it’s magic. With a flip of her bleached-blonde hair and a bat of her (contact lens) blue eyes, she can file her nails and successfully convince the president she is conducting a profitable office function. When I do nothing, it looks like nothing. When Bubbles does nothing it looks like she’s running the place. The rest of us ordinary girls stand in awe of her. She is our hero.

Monday / at work

Another typically cheerless day with not a goddamn thing to do. Of course, there is always filing the hateful mountain of papers stacked in Mr. Ishkoniann’s office. But no sane person files anything voluntarily. Speaking of which, Sara, Bubbles, and I were in the ladies room discussing capital punishment of all things. Talk about three chicks in need of a life. Bubbles believed: “They should sentence all those death row guys to filing papers for the rest of their lives instead of killing them. I’ll bet that would make crime go down.” Amazing, isn’t it? I tell you, the girl is a freaking genius.

I had a wonderful and vivid dream last night. I had my hands firmly clasped around Ishkoniann’s neck. It felt sooo….. good….

Wednesday / Home, Finally. Exhausted!

Mien Furor unexpectedly returned from his impromptu “business” trip in Bermuda and audibly chewed me out which oddly enough, I did expect. Stupid me. I was unable to get him a Mercedes 350 to drive his sorry ass around in on 12 minutes notice The asshole doesn’t come into the office or phone all day. Then at five o’clock, right when I am walking out the door he calls from a private plane and wants a powder blue convertible 350 waiting for him when he steps off the plane. Who does he think he is, Paris Hilton? Even that ditzy bitch wouldn’t try that one. So the morbidly obese rat-bastard wound up with a BMW instead. For free mind you. Yet, he still had to bitch me out about it. As always, his verbal browbeating finished with a threat of dismissal and half-backed platitudes like “I believe in you.” I’m serious, this man is purely psycho. One minute he’s threatening to fire you and the next he’s telling you what a great job you’re doing. Even on those rare times when his sorry bi-polar ass is nice to me, I still hate him like Satan. And I’m not happy about any of this. I mean, I use to be one of the nicest people I knew. Now I’m turning into one of those women who looks good but scare guys away because of all the anger they have pent up inside. Men are not completely stupid; they can smell a bitch from a mile away.

Home … 4am

Just woke up from a dream where I shot Mr. Ishkoniann in cold blood. I know its wrong, but it felt soooo good!

Thursday / 4.29.04, 8:85 am / the A train

I am on the subway, in theory on my way to work. The train has been sleeping one off for the past forty-five minutes and I could care less. I have everything a girl could possibly need for such a situation. A large coffee, a copy of The New York Post, and a seat far, far away from most of the stinky people. Girl, the longer it takes to get to Times Square the better. I have been feeling a little bit guilty about the dream last night. Because deep down inside I wish, it could come true. Yet it disturbs me that I can hate a person to the point of wanting to murder them. Not caring if they dropped dead or not is one thing. But honestly wanting to take someone out? That can’t be healthy.

Later / Evening-ish / drunk out of my mind.

Mr. I. gave me three days off for insubordination. Don’t ask.
It’s funny; two years ago this place had me suicidal. But now it’s made me homicidal and this is some damn good Merlot.

Tuesday / 5.4.04 / Bryant Park

Third day off and it’s the best thing that could have happened to me. It’s been heaven. Got to record a new song and catch Montel, who coincidently did a show about women who have murdered their boss’s and gotten off. This one chick shot her supervisor at point blank range because he and driven her crazy. She never did a day in jail. You have no idea how good this made me feel. I started fantasying the option. God do I dread going back to the office tomorrow.

Thursday / Mc Manus Bar

Dear Diary,

The day wasn’t going too badly, at first. I drafted a “non-responsibility” manifesto for the overseer. I stated in not very polite words: “I will not compose personal letters to your family, send flowers to your wife when she gets suspicious of you and your nineteen-year-old mistress. I will not empty your ashtrays, be your messenger, or play watchdog over your Evian in the break room.” I presented this to him in writing and it resulted in a week off. This time without pay.

Thursday / Starbucks Astor Place

Dear Diary,

Spent the week in Vermont with little brother the hunter. They‘re such great kids. What really blew my mind was; Jenny, that tiny, innocent looking wife of his is an expert on handguns. No shit! She’s written a book on the them. Jen and I went out to the yard and practiced with a bunch of different revolvers. Damn, the pure power of these things just blew me away. She wound up giving me a .45 she won in a shooting contest. I named her Sally.

Friday

Dear Diary,

I know it’s a crazy thing to do, but five days ago I brought Sally to the office to show Sara. She was so impressed she went out and bought a .22. Every night after work, we have been going to the range

Thursday

Dear Diary,

For three days, I have been bringing Sally to the office and keeping her in my desk drawer fully loaded. I know it’s mad and extreme but it gives me such a strange feeling of security. My god, I must be cracking up. No sane person does this.

Friday / 5.29.04pm

Even though things have become absolutely unbearable here at the workplace netherworld, I have a much bigger problem. I could swear I heard Sally call-out to me from inside the desk drawer. All I could make out were the words: “Shoot to kill. Shoot to kill”. At first, I chocked it up to fatigue. But two hours later it happened again. I am seriously getting worried.

Monday

Dear Diary,

Today I went with Sara to get her German Lugar out of the layaway. You should have seen us in the supply closet ogling over it. Who would ever have thought a murder weapon could be so beautiful. But I wonder, are we taking this all a bit too far? By the way, I hocked my old Fender bass and bought two machetes, a crossbow, and a stun gun.

Sunday

Dear Diary,

Make no qualms about it; I am definitely loosing my mind. Come on, what sane person would bring a packed pistol to work? I don’t think I understand anything anymore. Sara says I have never sounded more lucid, but look whose talking. The dreams are occurring every night, and all day long, I hear Sally calling out from my drawer: “Shoot to kill…kill Ishkoniann”. I’m worried other people might hear her.

Sara stopped by my desk to tell me she pawned her old engagement ring to buy a switchblade and a flamethrower. From the desk, we both heard Sally say: “Smart girl Sara”. Thank god, my shrink is back from her retreat tomorrow. Why is it that your therapist always goes on vacation when you’re having a crisis?

Monday / at the studio waiting for Tesfa to change his strings

Dear Diary,

Saw Dr. Kraus today. Now nothing makes sense. She said that the gun thing is nothing to worry about as long as I do not act on my fantasies. She thinks my delusions will ultimate lead to me taking action to change my life. Can you believe that? I am bringing a loaded gun to my job everyday and having dreams of shooting my boss and she thinks it’s nothing to fret over. She will be a big help if I ever stand trial. I am just glad my insurance is paying her and not me.

Tuesday / 6.8.04 noon-ish / work

Sara is pissed at me because I cancelled our lunch date. I had to. I think she is becoming a bad influence on me.

(5hrs later)

I caved and had lunch with Sara. After all, she is the only person who knows about Sally speaking. Besides, if Dr. Kraus knew that little detail, I would be on an anti-psychotic medication or locked up in Belleview faster than you could say justifiable homicide.

Wednesday / 6.9.04

Guess what? Ishkoniann’s legal first name is Lucifer. What does that tell you? Today the asshole wasted two hours of my time blessing me out for not telling a prospective client he was in Cancun for three days. He didn’t tell me he was sneaking off with his teenybopper girlfriend. He certainly didn’t tell his wife who is in the hospital having bi-pass surgery. So I screamed back at him: “What do you want me to do, develop ESP just for you? And the jackass said: “Well that would be a good place to start”. Hell, if I had known he was taking a plane I would have bombed it. When I got back to my desk, Sally said: “You should have shot him.” Just listen to me. I’m totally loosing my marbles. But girl, I know one thing; I’m taking Sally home and never bringing her to work again.

Wednesday / 6.16.04 / you’ll never guess where

It has been a week since the last entry and you won’t believe what happened. Later that day, Mr. Ishkonian walked up to my desk with a shit-eating grin and said he had news for me. I was in shock and froze trying to muster the strength to hear I was being fired. Suddenly I heard Sally screaming from the desk drawer: “Shoot to kill! Shoot to kill! Shoot to kill”. Ishkoniann asked who was talking. I started shaking and Sally kept shouting “Kill him! Shoot him now! Go ahead! Do it! Kill him!” Again, he asked who was talking and I simply snapped. I pulled Sally out of the drawer and pointed her right at his unsightly mug.

“Its sally” I said. “And she hates you even more than I do.” He stood there shaking like a crack-head belly dancer with sweat running down his hideous fat cheeks. I blasted him with insult after insult and I got so into it, I lost all track of time and of what I was doing. A few minutes later, I was being escorted out of the building in handcuffs. So here, I sit in jail waiting for justice to take its course. The irony is, Ishkoniann came up to my desk to tell me I was being given a raise and a promotion. In hindsight, I should have listened to Sally the first time.

Copyright © 2011 Gaz O’Connor

Gaz O’Connor is a literary humorist and stand-up comedian started out writing material for local comics in Detroit. Mr. O’Connor has lived and pursued comedy in Los Angeles and New York City. Currently seeking publication for You Always Hurt the One You Love; an anthology of short stories, essays and stage plays.

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