Well, congratulations. You did it, and I hope you're happy. Your life was a tragedy, and your death? It's the final chapter; but to you it was less tragic than the 27 previous chapters, simply because it was at least an end. This tragic story will be followed by an epilogue about the amazing places your children will go without you, and the amazing things they'll do that you won't see because you were too selfish and drowning in your own fucking misery to remember them. FUCK YOU.
Escaping pain became your primary goal, and you finally achieved the ultimate trip. Not that you hadn't already died a hundred times inside, using your heroin heroine to push your body to the very limits of life, each time coming back cockier than before. "I saw death," you boasted to me last summer, "and I came back."
Well, you didn't come back this time, asshole. It was really just a matter of time until this inevitability found you. I don't miss you at all, and in fact, your death was not a surprise, nor does it make me sad. Does this piss you off? That no one was surprised that you smacked yourself to death in your apartment, to be found later by the girlfriend who never gave up on you, even though you gave up on yourself? I'm sorry that your life was so shitty. I hope that you have found death to be a relief, 'cause God knows your death has relieved me.
