Date A Girl Who Kills
Date a girl who kills. Date her because she’s exciting. Date her because she’s a psychopath. Date her because she has a collection of human teeth next to the vibrator in her junk drawer. Some of those teeth may even belong to people you used to know.
You might be terrified sleeping next to her, but most of the time she won’t even be there. She works at night, after all, slaughtering people. Chopping their bodies up, dumping body parts where they won’t ever be found, killing anyone who catches her in the act. Men, women, children, good people, bad people—does it really matter? This world where you and your beautiful murderess live is terribly overpopulated. People are mere cockroaches in the crawlspace of God’s apartment. And she’s his exterminator.
Date her because she’s John Wayne Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer all rolled into one, with better tits than Gacy and a tighter asshole than Dahmer. No one will ever piss you off and live to tell about it. That guy who creeped her out on Facebook? Dropkicked off the Freedom Tower. The Jehovah’s Witness who woke you up Saturday morning? Ground up and served to Shake Shack customers. Your asshole boss? Found in Gramercy Park with a Colombian necktie. Your ex? Found disemboweled in the Central Park Zoo tiger habitat.
Sure, things might get a little scary when you get into arguments with her. Sure, you won’t be able to open your freezer without shrieking in terror. Sure, every double date will end with a romantic night walk while dragging body bags. So fucking what? She’s way hotter than the navel-gazing Brooklyn artisan types you usually go for. The only thing they ever kill is a good time.
Date a girl who kills, because no matter what you do you’ll be the sane one in the relationship. You won’t ever be able to tell her that without risking your life, but you’ll know it. After all, you’re not the one responsible for hundreds of New York’s most grisly unsolved murders. The Asian tourist, the priest, the lesbian couple, the US Senator, countless homeless men, Bobby Flay—all her handiwork.
Date a girl who kills because it’s the only way to catch her off guard. Kill a girl who kills because you’re secretly a better killer than she is. When the right time comes, you’ll press the pillow down tightly over her sleeping face. Her small body will buck desperately, her thin pale legs will kick aimlessly, and her nails will scratch at your arms to no avail. The worst serial killer in the city’s history will finally be dead. Later that night, you’ll dine on a grim charcuterie made from the remains of your killer cutie. For dessert you’ll have a delectable macaroon you made from her smoothly shaved vagina with a creamy ganache filling made from her ground-up fingernails, your semen, and your tears. She’ll be part of you forever.