This morning, I called my husband on my way into the office with some startling news:
“I’m a murderer,” I confessed.
“A murderer? What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well, I was driving down the road and heard a knock on the side of the car. Looking back to see what I’d hit, I saw the car behind me swerve to miss the little squirrel corpse I left tumbling in my wake.”
“You killed a squirrel? How?”
“Well, I was eating my English muffin. And I couldn’t see past all those delicious nooks and crannys. And you know what’s worse?”
“I didn’t stop. It was a hit and run.”
“You’re a horrible person.”