I must not have enough to worry about. My latest concern is that I will die, someone will look up my internet search history, and everyone will think I’m a deranged killer. Was a deranged killer. (Are there other kinds of killers?)
thing. When you’re a writer, you look up ways people can die. Involuntarily,
that is. You explore the methods of bringing about such a fate for your
You also look up how many roaches
are in chocolate bars, how to melt a penny, the wasp count in figs, disgusting
fertilizer options, and exploding weeds.
You research food poisoning,
burglarizing, snake bites, bear attacks, outright lying, rare diseases, and
blackmail. You look into mummies, embezzlement, falling into volcanoes, getting
covered in ink, and how to make hair stand on end.
Your interests appear bizarre. Your husband kindly mentions that you change topics like a TV remote control. You stare off into space like a cat does, and then you research why they do that.
A recent glance at my “history” online would be enough to convict many a suspect, although I stay mostly indoors, which is a wonderful alibi.