I’m No Sociopath!

My husband accused me of trying to kill him this morning. With bad meat.

As I carefully explained to him, if I had a list of people that I would like to see dead, which I may or may not have, he is (or, at least prior to this ridiculous accusation and the ensuing conversation, WAS) not even in the top ten. I also found it necessary to let him know that if I were, indeed, going to embark upon a life of crime and commit murder, which, of course, I am not, I would not choose “death by meat” as my method of choice.

I’d like to think that I’d have more sense than that. While I know very little about poisoning people, I would think that if one were going to go about it, one would choose a more fool-proof method than serving up a questionable meat product and then standing by and hoping for the best. I cautioned him that if I began to stock up on anti-freeze or rat poison, he might want to sleep with one eye open.

I would like to make it abundantly clear that while I may, at times, have some anger issues, I am not now nor have I ever been a sociopath. Death by poison (and, I think, spoiled meat would fall into this category), takes the type of planning and initiative that one normally associates with the sociopathic personality.

It’s safe to say that I’m not that much of a planner. If I were, would I have possibly spoiled meat in the fridge? I don’t think so.

If I were going to go on a killing spree, which I currently have no plans to do, I would imagine that it would be the result of my becoming unglued — utterly and finally. In other words, I’m far more likely to have a psychotic break fueled, no doubt, by having to participate in ridiculous conversations about whether or not I am planning to send my husband to an early grave by feeding him chopped meat that has spent two days in the refrigerator. Ground beef that is, by the way, still fit for consumption. It’s not expired. It’s not brown. It’s fine!

I take no small amount of pride in a job well done. I am a “finish what you start” type of person. I would like to think that if I decided to murder someone, I would do it right. I wouldn’t half-ass it, which is another reason why I wouldn’t choose poison. Even if I were able to acquaint myself with and acquire enough poison to hasten my husband’s death, I’ll bet it would take too long. Not being, as I pointed out previously, a sociopath, I would take no pleasure in watching him die, I’d just want the job done.

If I were to get up to killing him (or, for that matter, anybody else), I’m pretty sure that it would be a crime of opportunity or passion. If I were him, I’d spend less time worrying about a bad hamburger and more time being mindful of annoying me near open seas, subway tracks or precipices.