...and I can't remember what this hole in my chest is from. I am pretty sure I am dead, though. I look around and it looks like I am still in my living room but everything is fuzzy and bright like when you wear those crazy, raver glasses. You know the ones that make every light look like the Star of Bethlehem. Anyway, I am pretty sure she shot me. Crazy bitch.
Look I call her crazy but I could just as easily be talking to myself. I mean, who punches a girl in the stomach? Not me. She just kept asking me to do it, though. We did this dance about how I wasn't going to hit her so she pulled out a shotgun. Damn! It was better when I didn't remember what happened to my chest. Now I am going to be locked up in her craziness for all eternity.
She was never a sweet girl. She used ask nerds out, at school, and then when they tried to sit next to her she would make a scene about how gross they were. Then in college she would continually stand up her dates. Or you might find her making out with a guy other than the one she brought to the party. She was a real piece of work. I can't believe she shot me though.
Well, I can't sit in my living room, standing over my body, forever. DAMN! I was sure there was a heaven. I prayed. I confessed. All for what? So that I could die and go to my living room. Sure the lighting is cooler, but come on! This is what I get for looking into her eyes. This is what I get for believing her mind will catch up with her emotions. A hole in my chest that's not even a metaphor. Shit!
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