Chapter 5: Myrna's Garden

I could list a few people who I believed could outrun Gina any day: stick-thin Amy who I had never seen leave the reception area, Madeleine in a pair of six-inch stilettos and even Leopold who never went beyond a jog when using a treadmill. But that assumption didn’t deter me from my mission. After fifteen minutes of brisk walking, I pressed the most important button on the treadmill Gina was using. I pressed it five times.

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Chapter 3: The Other Gina

I knew Gina was getting married to a douchebag named Danny Fackelmeyer. I also knew she didn’t buy clothes from Victoria’s Secret. I suspected that her eyes rolled upward during orgasm as I observed from every spoon of cheesecake she ate. Beyond those, I knew nothing more and I needed to know more so I could find more reasons to have glee over her current state of life. “Private” cock-blocked me, though. Her Twitter, Instagram and Facebook profiles were all set to private. I supposed if you did not have a six-pack or did not look acceptable in a bikini, you’d make your social media accounts private too. My only consolation was her one public profile photo, a semi-duck-faced selfie and one public cover photo, a row of rose bushes.

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Chapter 2: Torch of Fettuccine

Bros of the same feather shopped in the same outlet together, but not us. Stepping out from the cab, my best friend, Francis, looked like a poorly-paid personal assistant next to my slim fit dress shirt and pair of Bengaline pants. Why he didn’t fancy the types of clothes I liked, I didn’t really know. Based on our looks, one would assume that he was the graphic designer and I the accountant. But that would be wrong. I couldn’t find my way out of a balance sheet and Francis couldn’t tell the difference between one point and two point perspectives.

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Chapter 1: Skinny Love and the Cheesecake

Where am I right now?

Jot this down. Scribble it. Write it. On a paper. On the edge of a newspaper. On a kitchen paper. Or if you prefer. Type it. File it. Save it. On a computer. In Notepad. In Wordpad. Or pin it on Twitter. Because when this story is over, you have to answer my question. Where am I right now? Where do you think I am right now?

Here is a hint: I killed my friends.


Fuck. Some people have an aversion to cursing.


Well, I said it anyway. Fuck what other people will think and say. Each of us gets only one life. Regrets suck harder once you get to the afterlife.


My name is Herbert Novelli and I have a confession to make. I killed my friends. I killed my friends and it fucking thrilled me.

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