Visualize for a second that you're this real s**t-kicker-a*****e. With a
constant half-smile, a smirk, like you're slow, or maybe told a joke
that no one else heard.
For a second picture that you're me. You're cute
with a bit of that Robert Downey Jr. charm, so girls look the other
way. The same guys who can't stand you, call you "f****t" in their
heads, keep you around just to leave things interesting.
And your only
redeeming quality is your immense capacity for loving your girlfriend.
Who might honestly be the only person you even like.
So despite how
badly you want to enslave her into forever with you, when she gets an
east coast scholarship, you let her go. Mostly because you think she can
do better, know she can. This girl is so far out of your league, she
makes you look 20,000 leagues under the sea. And being the real
s**t-for-brains that you are, it never even occurs to you that this girl
reciprocates your exact feelings.
So your one and only selfless act? It
comes off as a slight.
The weeks go by and even though you try to stay
in touch, you just cause her more pain. You get a call from her merry
gang of Manhattanites, her new pals, all of whom are worried about her.
So you fly your a*s to New York, you try and fix things, but there's now
a rift, an endless disconnect and you leave things even worse for wear.
It's only a week before you get the only phone call that you'll never
forget, your one-and-only downed a bottle of pills and never woke up
again.
The line between guilt and grief is a tight-rope.
Self-destruction was so always my thing.
This is my tell-all, the
skeleton in my closet, my confession. I'm giving you the story I refused
to give the judge. Tomorrow I go to jail for crashing my Honda
Weapon-of-Mass-Destruction Accord, while drunk, almost killing another
driver.
The thing they forget to mention about suicide, is that 90% of
them end in ignominious failure.