(for HTC)
I drink three cans of poison and I still don't die. It's at this point that I say to myself "This is ridiculous. It shouldn't be so hard to kill myself. Clearly there must be some part of me that wants to live. But why?" That's the part of myself that I send off on a long hopeless crusade, riding a black horse through a desert of intricate and unworkable relationships. "Goodbye to that" I think to myself, locking the door, never expecting to see whatever it was again. "And good riddance, too." Meanwhile I go about my business—pacing the floor, drawing hexes, masturbating, eating sushi. One day, the branch outside the window flowers, a moth flies out of the cereal box, there's a knock on the door.
"Who is it?" I ask, ear pressed to the jamb, heart pounding.
No answer.
I'm not fooling anyone. Whoever it is already has a key and a hard-on.
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