Suicide Letter

I am writing this note not because I want to explain why I am killing myself. The thing that funny novels won’t tell you is how long it takes for a verical gash on your wrist to succesfully bleed you dry. It gets boring after a bit, watching the blood ooze away to glory. Reading obviously isn’t a smart thing to do.You don’t get to finish the book you start. And in case you do, that’s worse. In our age of well marketed sequels, that would be quite the disaster. So writing a note seemed like the smart thing to do. What I had not anticipated is that I would run out of things to ramble about. I remember this time, when I walked out my house after midnight. And I saw a hand, cleanly severed from the wrist lying carelessly on the dashboard of a beaten up ,light blue Omni. It was rather