G-G-G-G-unit
- friend: sorry, i can't hang out anymore
- me: but i showered for you
“We see the past through tears, which render events into perfection. But our everyday lives assault us with the imperfect present—moment by moment, endless and indifferent—the only eternity we know. But in lonely moments we are haunted by what has passed, and helplessly beguiled toward a future perfect tense.”
Most suicides leave notes. My Sara didn’t. Most women who kill themselves choose non-violent means. My Sara went to Chalet Sporting Goods in Pasadena and selected a Mossberg 12 gauge shotgun in matte black. She put it on her Visa, waited the requisite ten days, then picked up the gun from the store and drove back to our rented home in San Gabriel. Then, after smoking enough cigarettes to fill the Santa Anita Racetrack ashtray we bought at the swap meet, my Sara tied her short brown hair back, went into the backyard, kneeled on the grass, placed the gun muzzle under her chin, and reached down for the trigger. The police later figured she must have only barely reached it—my Sara stood 5’3” in gym socks—but reach it she did, and she blew the front half of her head into the bright blue cloudless Southern California sky.
When he whispers, “You love me. Real or not real?” I tell him, “Real.”
gay gay gay
lame ending
