Morphine

"I've thought long and hard about this and we've decided that we're gonna have to put you down."

Word!

I'll never forget these words and how they administered a lethal dose of zenotrophic morphine into my travel bag. I can't tell you how many times I've been almost killed: 87. I have notebooks full of such accounts and every last one ends with me writing "Ha, ha!" I'm a fucking real genius when it comes to escaping a harmful drug. See, what I do is, I hide in my mind and regulate each and every iota of drug to a safe place. For instance, I have 50 milligrams of cyanide stored in an ear and 30 ccs of hydrochloric acid that will soon be wept away after the next Oscar moment I see. By the time I'm 67 I'll be a living, breathing execution. And I value my time here. Why the attempts on my life? Well, first part: ecology friendly devices fuel me. I live off the land like so much battered chicken, set free to stagnate on empty farms in Vermont. You should really try it out. In my younger years, I was a bellhop to Sir Paul McCartney. He may have been the biggest prick to exist. He kept shouting for eggs in this falsetto voice I'll never forget. And to this day I'll never forgive him or the unicorn he brought into the hotel that shat all over my clean pair of linens. And it was that day that I decided that Nutrasweet was evil – don't ask why.