The day I was born my mother sent me naked screaming into the world. Hurling towards a pinpoint of light from between her legs that I would spend the entirety of my forty-two years trying and failing to reach.

Till one day, if I am being honest, blowing my brains out was the only way I saw it all finally being put to rest.

Now this is where you find yourself. Probably somewhere between scrolling through Facebook, watching Netflix and digging a chubby hand in a bag of something you should not be eating. Aghast at what I’ve done. All the while sitting there in a digitized state of gluttony consuming my misery.

Thoughts and prayers, likes and shares, a million posts later.

The news, sitting there reading my letter to you. I presume only because they pulled it from my backpack after I had done something awful and the media now sought in vain to make some grand psychoanalysis out of everything. Make it entirely more complicated than what it really was.

I’d had enough.

Now my brains were sprayed across the sand, and my skull opened like petals of a blood drenched dahlia bending toward the hot sun. All elegantly displayed as the waves crashed and moments would pass before anyone noticed.

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