Pull the Fucking Plug
Listen, while I still have motor functions and a brain and hand that work in unison, let me write the following: pull the fucking plug.
I've been alive for almost 29 years now and you dirty bastards, whether friends or family, should start at least THINKING about pulling the fucking plug on me.
With the way in which I have treated my body since day one, it'll be a wonder if I'll be able to complete this article without passing out on my keyboard.
Look, I know you have wholesome feelings about me and that we all had some good times together, but let's face it, I'm not getting any better.
I spent the better part of the weekend drunk, and the parts where I was sober I could barely form complete sentences in the grip of massive hangovers. So, I ask you family: what's taking you so fucking long?
I'm in a goddamn coma over here and I can't remember the last time I didn't feel as if this was all a haze.
There must be a plug somewhere! Don't give me that shit. Look on my back.
Fine. K, then shoot me. I don't have the courage to do this, so just fire a large caliber weapon into my face. I'll even write a letter giving you legal permission to do so.
Morals? Fuck your morals – I need to die pronto! I didn't choose to be here, so don't give me that shit.
Good lord! How hard is it, really?
Reality-wise
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