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A Suicide Note*

Really, you could call it suicide, but it isn’t suicide when you’re as worn-down and weak as I am. It’s euthanasia; putting me out of the misery of my rotted-from-the inside, barely-breathing corpse of a body. I have nothing left to give.


The cruelest joke played on my once-muscular body is that my atrophied muscles and degenerated veins can barely prop me up or allow the blood to flow anymore.

My great love, who stood by me for decades, has turned on me; ratted me out as “flawed” and trashed me in the public square, saying, "I have been going for 40 years or more with very considerable evidence that it was working exceptionally well" (referring to our relationship). Still, to just live each day, I require more and more help, and, parasite that I am, I’m not worth it; I know my time is up.

I’m not entirely sure I really ever was a person at all.

Goodbye to all those suckers who loved me.
Sincerely,
*Deregulated Capitalism

Michael Fox