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happy hour at cape disappointment

I smile a little, whenever I hear Christmas music, and imagine slashing my own throat. True despondency is realized while perusing the unsatisfactory selection of otc drugs in the overlit aisles of Walgreens or CVS late in the evening. "None of these will do." It's too late for a career or a relationship. My only dream that isn't dead is the dream of escape. Forget China. I'm digging a tunnel to the moon. "You're so funny," some of them tell me. It really irritates me. They don't know that whatever sense of humor I express does not come from a bright, happy place but is merely a poor substitute for raking the blade of a box cutter across my throat or blindly rushing into traffic. Still thinking about quitting my job and this apartment, getting rid of all my books and music. Buying a car and driving north until I find a rundown motel in the fog, a quiet place to drink myself to sleep every day until the money runs out and everything runs out.

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