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Suicide

You'd think there'd be something to be said for, when life's problems and annoyances, crummy jobs and crummy people and no money and hay fever and nine months of gray skies a year and all that fun stuff get to be too much, just chucking all that, and all our junk in our houses and apartments, and our junk cars; just chucking it all and moving to Hawaii and finding some way to scrape by while hanging out on the beach, getting a tan, and learning to surf, and completely leaving the Old You behind... you'd think there'd be something to be said for that. And there would be if it worked. Instead, you end up fatter and paler than you were on the mainland, 'cuz you work six days a week to scrape by, and it rains on your day off, and you have to sleep, shop, and do laundry on that day anyway. So you live in your head a lot, and if you're in there too much, you end up sinking down to the bottom where all that old stuff that you tried to leave behind is still rotting away.

And so you still think about it. Every day.

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