August
1, 2013
Dear
Diary,
I
feel I should start this whole affair by pointing out that I do not want to
keep a diary. The last thing I need in my already busy life is even more work.
It was my therapist’s idea to log my days, taking account of my, as he put it,
“Errors, lapses of judgment, temper tantrums, the many failures and of course
the occasional victory. Write as if you were confessing everything to your best
friend, assuming you had one.” At first I was infuriated. I thought it was the
stupidest idea I had ever heard. Keep a diary? Me? I am a grown woman, not some
starry eyed girl filled with teen angst and raging hormones. What good would a
journal do someone in my position let alone my profession? I am not in the
business of sharing secrets; I’m in the business of keeping them, or better
still, destroying them.
Imagine
how embarrassed I am to admit that this might not be such a bad idea after all.
I suppose that is my first confession, new friend, that Dr. Marcus was right
after all. In fact, I feel sort of guilty for shooting the poor man in the
head.
Note to self: Get Bartholomew to send the
widow Marcus a flower arrangement.
I’ve
never kept a journal before, and now that Dr. Marcus is gone, I don’t know
where to start. Wow, I really regret killing the man. Talk about a lapse in
judgment … ah I see what he means. I might be a touch impulsive after all. Which
is why this journal is so important, I suppose. It will give me a chance to
look back and see where I have gone wrong. Why my best laid plans never seem to
come to fruition. Why I am not in the position of power I deserve.
Why
am I not Supreme Ruler of the planet yet? I have the brains, the looks, and God
knows I have the money. You’d think that combination would be enough to lie,
sly or buy my way to the top, yet here I sit, alone, in my secret underground
lair, the Supreme Ruler of a number useless henchmen and the world’s laziest
cat. No offense to Caligula, but he is a fat furball of lethargy. Not to
mention the fact that he is far too demanding, as well as chatty. I should’ve
never used that intelligence enhancement ray on him. Name a cat after a crazy
Roman Emperor and he will act like a crazy Roman Emperor, I suppose. Lesson
learned.
See?
Dr. Marcus was right, this is a grand idea. I am already learning so much about
myself. This will be good for me. I just know it. Speaking of me, which I will
do a lot of in our future exchanges, dear journal, I supposed I should pause
here and tell you a bit about myself. I am terrible at introductions so I will
just be frank. Well, I suppose I should be Sylvia, since that is my name. Ha!
Okay,
I just read that bit back to myself and I sound like an idiot. I actually wrote
out the word ha. Is this what I am supposed to do? I don’t know the rules of this
sort of thing. I would take it out, but Dr. Marcus forbade me from using the
delete key. He said, “The first thing you type is what you truly meant to say.
You can’t take back words after you speak them, so no backsies on the typing.” Geesh,
he was a pretty smart guy.
Note to self: Leave loaded guns out of therapy
room in the future.
Back
to introductions, before I forget. My name is Sylvia Fowler and I am, for lack
of a better term, a villainess. By villainess, I mean I have chosen the
profession of world domination. This
includes loads of hours spent planning and scheming. I work with select, well
paid organizations to put those plans into motion by constructing either the
giant death machine or some other mechanical device that will achieve said plan.
I organize measures to dispose of anyone who stands directly in the plan’s way.
I also maintain a highly trained staff of loyal employees, which in itself is a
fulltime job. And last but not least, I must keep my real identity secret until
it is time to step in as leader of the new world order.
I
went back and read that and wondered whose life I am describing, because it
certainly isn’t mine. I make it sound so glamorous, don’t I? Right, this whole
journal thing is about confessions. In that case, I confess I spend a lot of
time sitting in front of the television, eating ice-cream right out of the
container while listening to Caligula complain about his day. It is the nature
of the beast.
Not
the cat, the job of villainess.
Most
world domination plans are slow burning. They take awhile to come together. They
are like delicate seeds; you sew them, tend them, nurture them and once they
bloom into fully realized ideas you may reap them to the tune of thousands of
screaming victims. Meanwhile you have three other plans on the boil because you
must prepare for all eventualities. This sort of thing takes time.
After
all, one can not build a giant mechanical ape overnight.
I
think I will end this first entry on that note. I must declare, again, that
this is a fine idea. This kind of confessional is strangely liberating. They
say confession is good for the soul, and I suppose there is a chance I might
have a soul after all because this has been very uplifting for me. I could sit
here all day, filling this journal to the brim with examples of my own
stupidity, vileness, and yes the occasional success story. But, alas, duty
calls. Caligula is watching the news as I type this, and I just heard them
mention Captain Sterling. I need to go and see if that idiot of a hero has
foiled my latest plan. See? I kept from calling him Captain Stupid.
Dr.
Marcus would be proud.
Note to self: Find new therapist.
Till
next time,
Sylvia
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