I was about 10 years old when I first plotted my sister’s death. She had eaten the tips of my chocolate bunny ears following the Easter Bunny’s visit and I was enraged. I was beyond consolation. I needed was revenge. And so, I lay in my bed and plotted out how I would destroy her. If memory serves, it was brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, I told my sister all about it the next day. That’s right. I told her how she would meet her untimely demise. Not nearly so impressed, she said, “You’re sick and I’m telling.” But to my delight, my mom was just as impressed as me. She did take a moment to tell me that my chocolate bunny was just chocolate and that I shouldn’t … blah, blah … the point here is that my mother agreed with me that my plans to annihilate my sister were both methodical and genius. At age 12, we lived in Moscow, Russia and there was no television. I was missing all the good stuff (like the Dukes of Hazzard), so it was up to me to make up stories during our hour-long bus rides to the Anglo-American school. Too…