Glee, A Murderous Thriller
Chapter One: Sue Sylvester
Dear Diary,
The name is still Sue Sylvester, but lately the writers of this God-forsaken show have been tainting my flawless identity. I used to feel alive, but the last few seasons have made me feel more like a wooden puppet used to play the PSA of the week's episode. And thus rather than having a consistent disposition, I seem to change my mind on my opinion of the Glee club and Fucking Will Shuester every week. (That said, I will say that this does feel like a good week for fornicating with Mr. Shue.) It simply depends on what role they want me to have in their PSA about drinking or texting-and-driving or transgender issues or whatever the hell else. I mean, remember season three when my sister died and then I was like, I'm done trying to stop your show choir, Will Shuester. Remember that? ME TOO. AND I GUESS WE FUCKING FORGOT ABOUT THAT, DIDN'T WE, RYAN MURPHY?! AS IN, LIKE, IT WAS NEVER EVEN MENTIONED?!
It was when I reached that conclusion that I reached my next conclusion. I am going to kill the McKinley High School Glee Club. That's right, Diary. They've won the Regional Show Choir Competition, again, and didn't deserve it, again, and it has gotten unbearable. I must end them. And I won't end there. I am going to kill the graduated members, Emma, Mr. Shue, Beiste . . . every stupid character on this stupid low-rated television show. I am going to kill them precisely and cleanly and one at a time. Then even my murders will be more graceful than the screenplays for this apparent musical comedy. Yeah, I forgot that this show was supposed to be funny, too.
Sue Sylvester closed her diary and sighed, satisfied, without a hint of remorse in her breath. Her first victim was already in mind: of course it was going to be Mr. Shue.