It’s Thursday night, and here I am parked on the couch, watching yet another random documentary about how love went sideways. You know the type: boy meets girl, girl meets boy, passion blooms, and then someone meets a shovel.

And every time, I’m left asking the same thing: How do people think they can get away with murder?
Spoiler: Most of these people are imbeciles. Not evil geniuses. Not even decent plotters. Yet somehow, they make it a shockingly long way without getting caught. The universe is full of mysteries, but this one might top my list; right next to “Why do hiccups exist?”

Speaking of which… I currently have them. Nonstop. Relentless. Those tiny diaphragm convulsions that feel both ridiculous and vaguely life-threatening. Every hic feels like a small punch to the heart. Skipping beats, interrupting thoughts, cutting off just enough oxygen to make me question my life choices.

And yet, do I turn off the TV? Do I drink a glass of water upside down like the internet says? No. I keep watching. Because these train-wreck tales are weirdly compelling. Even burnout feels a little exciting when there’s ominous narration and dramatic reenactments involved.

The irony? Here I am, watching exhausted detectives chase down exhausted criminals while I sit here, exhausted, my brain cells staging a slow revolt thanks to interrupted breathing patterns. The hiccups are practically my own internal true-crime story: The Case of the Missing Oxygen to the Brain.

Why do I keep doing this? I don’t know. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s schadenfreude. Maybe I’m just too tired to find the remote.

But I do know this:
If I ever make it into one of these documentaries, it won’t be because I was outwitted by some charming criminal mastermind. It’ll be because my Thursday night hiccups finally got the better of me and Netflix decided it would make a compelling three-part limited series.