My friend and I were having lunch yesterday, and at some point he jokingly asked me if I'd be willing to kill an acquaintance of his for $1,000. A thousand dollars? I repeated, laughing. I don't think so. With something like murder, I explained, there's a whole spectrum of things to take into consideration. For one, I'd have to do tons of research, determine an appropriate method, and then carry off the deed itself without getting caught or implicating him. Not easy. Likely not cheap, either. Also, there's my personal squeamishness and my distate for violence, both of which would take a hefty sum of cash to overcome. A thousand dollars, indeed. I scoffed at the suggestion.

So we haggled for a while and finally arrived at an equitable compromise. I'd "take care of" his acquaintance if he would "take care of" someone in my life whose mortal coil was in dire need of shuffling. It'd be brilliant, just like in Strangers on a Train (minus the sloppy outcome, naturally). There would be very little to link us to the other's crime (except for the fact that we're friends, and people know we're friends, but that's a trivial matter, right?). So, having concluded our negotiations, I began to think of potential candidates for elimination.

This was when it occurred to me that I had a fundamental problem.

You see, there are plenty of people I dislike in this world. And there are a few more whom I wouldn't mind seeing incapacitated—drooling and comatose even—perhaps forced to listen to "Sing Along with Mitch" until their eyes bleed and their brains atrophy. But dead? That's something else entirely. Like diamonds, dead is forever. And not nearly as sexy.

So I racked my already overtaxed brain. Who would I want dead, if my friend and I were to carry out this Hitchcock-esque farce? Someone like Hitler, for sure. But he's dead already, and asking my friend to build a time machine for us would introduce unneeded complications to the plan. The victim would therefore have to be someone who is currently living. Easy enough—a few celebrities spring to mind right away. But then, for our plan to be truly balanced, I would have to choose someone from within my realm of friends and experience, not just an actress with big teeth or a jingoistic talk show host I've never met. Which brings us back to my core problem: I don't really have a personal Fortunato. There's no one I can think of whom I despise so greatly that I'd wish to see their stockinged foot jutting out of a wood chipper. It's embarrassing, really. I've always imagined myself as this edgy, vixenish ninja-in-training whose thirst for blood cannot be slaked. And now here I am, at the moment of truth, unable to conjure up enough negativity to warrant a single murder. Turns out, I'm kind of a hippie.

Sigh.

Needless to say, my friend and I called off our deal. I'm disappointed with myself, but this result shouldn't have surprised me. I really am disgustingly nice. I'm even nice in my sleep, as evidenced by a dream I had a few nights ago in which Patrick Bateman from American Psycho was sitting in my living room playing LPs on my record player. I knew he was a serial killer, but apparently, I was too polite to mention it.