Don't Say I Didn't Warn You About Beauty

I was drunk in the bathtub, trying to remember exactly how many little pills I'd choked down.

There's a warning they should mention in those pharmaceutical commercials on TV:  "Could be difficult to count when trying to end it all.  Ask your doctor if you're healthy enough to end it all."  But those evil advertising motherfuckers and their knob-gobbling co-conspirators in the medical profession never say one word about the mathematical side effects of the prescription goodies they hock to unsuspecting depressives in search of life's emergency exit.

My bourbon glass was neither half-full nor half-empty.  It was broken into a heaping collection of radiant, razor-sharp shards playing off the sunset like a pile of enormous diamonds.

The bottle, too, was smashed into dangerous pieces—beneath water the color of a high school girl's fingernails, or the carnations detailed in a grandmother's antiquated wallpaper.

It was, at that time, a terribly normal Saturday evening.

The moon outside the window was different back then.  
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