Thursday, August 1, 2013

First of Many

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,


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