To whom it may concern:
I’ve had a pretty good life. Stellar health, insane handsomeness, an academic accolade or two, two wildly successful blogs, I’ve kissed a few girls (heck, kissed a few guys after Syracuse won the 2003 title), and once I was even kinda hit on by a drunken Kyra Sedgwick before Kevin Bacon arrived and whisked her into a cab. I don’t have much to complain about. But the weather outside is miserable, I’m turning 30 in thirteen day, and I just can’t take this cruel world any more.
To off myself I pour a glass of the shitty faux-microbrewery Blue Moon’s spring offering Rising Sun. My friend, the late Taco Town Dave tipped me off to the poison-like qualities of this beer before it caused his ultimate demise just last weekend. RIP TTD.
The smell is pungent, like one of those plastic squeeze bottle of fake lemon and lime juice. No, even worst than that. It’s downright zesty, like if one were to drink that powdered lemon dish detergent. I recall in first grade when, to try and get her students excited (!) about learning to read, my teacher told us a s’posed-to-be apocryphal story about the adult illiterate who bought dish detergent thinking it was lemonade powder due to the lemon picture on the box. That woman died. Lesson: if only she’d learned how fun reading is. Teachers have such dumb teaching strategies.
I’m started to think if that illiterate really existed she had actually just bought Rising Sun. I’m sure the autopsy couldn’t tell a difference. The findings would probably be inconclusive. Did she drink lemon dish detergent or Rising Sun? My motor senses are slowing down, the poison quickly coarsing through my veins, affecting my CNS. I’m typing with just my pinkie, the only appendage still with a range of motion.
I have about half the beer down. My breath is gonna reek when they find my body. Smells of cheap malts and foil. I feel like I have ate a tin can. If my leg muscles hadn’t paralysised I would walk to the bathroom and do a Scope gargle.
This is not a pleasant way to die. I should have jumped off the GW Bridge, leapt in front of the A train, insulted Al Sharpton, anything else. Getting this whole beer down is worse than waterboarding. It’s like my uvula is being waterboarded by citric acid. President Obama, please send this beer to Gitmo. I hear there is some space now.
Four sips left. My vision’s getting blurry. Three sips. I can feel my liver is failing. Two more. My heart is slowing as if I’m in a waking coma. One. My brain function is Teri Schiavo-ing…
Goodbye cruel world. Hit “publish.”