Is it enough to say I'm tired?
I'm tired.
I've had enough—she left me for the janitor, however doe-eyed and endearing and exciting and new he fucking is—I don't give a shit, truly: 4 years.
Countless girls I did not have sex with (fuck) in 4 years. For what? For the sake of some bullshit relationship where we kept a severe distance just for we wouldn't fight then cry then hug each other till we stopped crying.
What I would give for some tears, now.
I'm tired.
And no one knows my name at work. No one seems to care.
“Hey, what's his name?” the manager who doesn't speak in english asks.
And no one knows.
And I turn, perplexed, inflicting my finger to myself and he says,
“This tiny slice you cut—3.50 for this slice? Pshht. Cut the pizza slower.”
I would never take the pizza cutter and murder anyone, but suddenly I realize that I have become that guy. The quiet murderous Columbine ticking time bomb. And yet no one is even patronizingly nice to me. Why was no one patronizingly nice to me? I would have at-least entertained the idea of getting help if you asked me, America, but no—it came to this.
No worries, though, no bloody rampages with the pizza cutter—too tired for that. Life's just a nasty fucking miserable thing and I don't want to act out in some anger that will make someone depressed and kill themselves. I want to contain my sorrows and deal with it appropriately.
Jessie—I don't mean to be traumatizing or anything but I don't want you to doubt that this is your fault. But don't kill yourself because I did... that's not even cute.
Mom—I wish you raised a warrior, but from the historical perspective I was the short little guy who never did much of anything but listen to the taller, more well adjusted people. And it's fine. We off ourselves. At least they have to clean up.
Dad—You are old so I'll give you the reassurance that this wasn't your fault, it was my ex-girlfriends. And now that I am dead I hope you have the courage to finally divorce mom. Also: you can have your baseball cards back.
Janitor—My dying wish is that you clean up the mess I leave. And yes, you do have to honor this wish. I have eaten all the things that contribute to rancid shits. Please spare no detail as you cry to Jessie about how horrible it was. I have no qualms with you feeling horrible about this and you killing yourself. I'm sure we could laugh about this if we ended up in the same place.
In conclusion: I understand life gets better or whatever the fuck cliché that translates to hang in their moron, work one more day and take one more heart break, and pay your goddamn taxes. But—I've seen the paycheck, known the love, and seen what my tax dollars amoun to: I've had enough.

morte moriendum,
walter wishings

It was right around dawn. It was a moderately sized white van with a vivid branding on it. It was a lively label, one sprung with pictures of ribbon and confetti strumming from every which way—green and red and yellow balloons all trimming the big, bright, beautiful words: Publisher's Clearing House. It drove with a inescapable excitement, but few people were awake to tend to it.
There were six people in that van and all would tell their friends and family that this was their favorite part of the job. Bringing the joy.
“You wouldn't believe how happy people get!”
“You wouldn't believe what it feels like to make a difference!”
And so they were giddy to reveal the winner of the sweepstakes and get that chilling fix of doing good to others. Until they arrived at 2718 East Peddleton St. Langston, New Jersey 63278.
The camera crew tip-toed quietly outside the home, as per training. The cheery man in the trimmed suit and the microphone walked excitedly to the door as two beautiful women held a gigantic check for 750,000 dollars. A man wearing a backwards cap and curduroy pants cues action. Tom Chauncellor knockes on the door in cadence to two booming gun shots—
!knock<-> BANG!
!knock<->BANG!
A look of terror floods Chauncellors face—the camera abruptly cuts and the authorities were notified immediately.
Winner's are now called a day prior to the taping of their prize reception.