Slaying the Holidays

When I said “get a new hobby,” I meant kayaking, not decking the halls with garlands of gore.
My newest therapy client is the definition of a DILF. His distractingly handsome face is all to blame for my mess up. If that wasn’t bad enough, now I’m practically stalking the murderous golden retriever. Can he even hear me arguing for pottery classes over the electric carver? Oh, it’s a bone saw? My mistake.
Merry Christmas! I’m getting myself an accessory to murder.
After a helpful talk with my beautiful divorce therapist, I decided to get into manslaughter. Maybe it’s not the hobby she had in mind, but the idea always interested me, and there’s plenty of predators I’d love to turn into prey.
And what do you know? My therapist was right. I do feel better! She seems a little ethically confused and personally concerned. She’s even cuter grumpy and exasperated. We’d make the perfect couple if she’d stop threatening to call the FBI.