Grimfaire wrote:
Most recently I've turned towards the suicide end of that spectrum... 23 T-3s and a fifth of vodka unfortuneatly didn't do the trick.
18 Xanax and tequila don't work, either.
In the sixth grade, my friend Jack wanted me to get in on helping him kill our school librarian, Mrs. Pierce.
(Note: Jack was a psychopath. He was my archenemy from K-2, but he gave me a kitty and I gave him a BB gun, and we were cool).
Jack called her "The Fat b***h" and drew up plans on how he was going to do it with a hunting knife he named "The Fat b***h Killer." He was obsessed with it, getting me up to date on the new plot twists every day. Pierce was merciless about keeping order during detention. Everyone hated her. She was the devil.
The last time I ever saw Jack, I swear, he showed me a handgun he had in his backpack and said he was just going to shoot the fat b***h during lunch break. The next day, he was gone forever. No one saw him again. Rumor had it he was expelled (no one knew why) and his dad sent him to relatives in Hawaii.
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Shatner's Bassoon