How to Kill Men and Get Away With It

by Katy Brent

pour the drinks while she settles down, ready to tell her tale like she’s doing the CBeebies fucking bedtime story. PS – I only know this because Tom Hardy reads them sometimes and it is prime masturbation material.

I’m Kitty and I’m new to online dating so please handle me gently. Freshly single after discovering I like my men how I like my coffee – able to keep its dick out of other women.

He smiles in a way he probably thinks is charming. Twat.

I hadn’t meant to kill Joel. Truly. But I can’t feel any remorse. In fact, it’s the opposite. Because of me, one fewer woman will lie awake at night wondering what she did wrong. Wondering why she wasn’t enough.

I’ve sat in bed, crying my eyes raw, wondering why I wasn’t enough. There is no pain quite like that of a broken heart. No matter what anyone says.

remember thinking it was very bold of him to assume he could make me come with just his dick,

I’d send him absolute essays of text messages, declaring my love for him. He’d reply with one word. If at all. I’d call, frequently. He cancelled the calls almost every time. When we did speak, all he did was talk about himself and his pain.

Eventually he agreed to see a GP, who in turn agreed that yes, Adam was indeed suffering from clinical depression and anxiety. He was given pills, which made him even more withdrawn, while I sat by him, reading everything I possibly could on how to support a partner with depression. I read him stories by writers I knew he loved. I took him to Charing Cross Road and led him into bookshop after bookshop, trying to get the light back into his dark eyes with first editions and ‘Look! This one’s signed!’ I cooked for him and watched as the food went cold and stale in front of us. I kissed him and straddled him and tried to suck his cock, but it was as if it had died.

Why the fuck the British public play such a big role in the justice system is mental to me. These are the people who apply for Love Island and Tipping Point.

I want to live in a world where I don’t have to keep my keys between my fingers in case I’m attacked walking home.

I remember thinking how incredibly happy grown-ups were at parties. It was only as I got older that I realised it was because they were all drunk or high.

I remember his big laugh echoing around the rooms of our house. His laugh made me feel safe. My father. My protector.

He doesn’t look like a monster though. But they don’t, do they? Otherwise, they’d never get the opportunity to be monsters.

‘Imagine if you walk in and he’s got one of those New York skyline prints on the wall.’

There’s still some notion that continually trying to win over a woman who has quite clearly expressed having no interest in you is romantic.

I get myself quite puffed out and sweaty as I try to drag him to the kitchen where I’ve laid out my tools, and lined the floor with pages from Vogue.

the internal swabs and exams that feel like being violated again ingrained in her, like for all women. ‘While there’s still evidence.’

If you think extremely average white men have a confidence they don’t deserve, imagine one with money who has been gushed over since he was about twelve.

He’s hit the jackpot this time as the lights dim and some R&B music, which sounds like it’s probably from a playlist called Now That’s What I Call Date Rape,