You don’t need to be sad anymore. Or angry. Or vengeful. Or any of the negative emotions you’ve held onto these past few years. All those emotions can slip out of your life almost unremarkably. If you sign the waiver, we can begin the end of your feelings.
I spent today being selfless just to see, and I’ll never be better than I am today. And I don’t want to be. And I don’t have to be. And I won’t.
Tell me how much they hurt you, and I’ll promise not to hurt you as much. I’ll hurt you right up to the point where I’m the one who hurt you the least.
I really hope we stay platonic friends. “Platonic”, of course, is a sexual position I made up, which I will teach you.
If only I could take away those few happy moments of my life. The rest of my life wouldn’t seem so low if it weren’t for that stark, unavoidable comparison. I could live with myself if I had never felt anything better.
You tell me about what your cats did all day. You point out the large moles you fear are cancerous, describing how each one has changed over the years. I listen to calls with your husband you put on speaker phone where he casually describes how he’s going to cheat on you. And you explain how you would leave him if you thought anyone else could ever love you. You show me your poorly made crafts. You pull out the medical records that prove you’re barren. You say how much you love kids. You cry, and I sit at a respectful distance. I somehow feel less sad engulfed in your depressing life than spending my afternoons alone.
Make all your worst mistakes now and all at once. I’ll hold them all against you for the rest of our lives, but it’ll be better for you if you don’t stagger them. They can be like consolidating your loans — I’ll never let you forget them, but I can bring them up over and over again in one lump sum.
This is going to come off as selfish, but if you didn’t spend so much time hating yourself, you could spend more time being in love with me.
Somewhere around our twentieth alias, it was hard to keep the truth straight. Was it Henry and Marla who were in love? Was it the real us? Which ones had kids and which ones hated dogs? And now that we’re talking about it, did we make up that you were cheating on me or was that real? And should I care? I’m starting to think we should pick the parts of our real and made up lives we like the best and throw away everything else. Maybe we’d be happier with only one identity each.
You created your own inevitability anyway. With each failed suicide, we collapsed into worse debt. It was almost ironic since our money issues created your depression in the first place. At some point, I had to step in and take care of the situation myself. You were more depressed than ever and determined to kill yourself, and I couldn’t afford another failed attempt or two before you succeeded. It’s funny that you always got annoyed with my need to make the best out of bad situations.