A Fistful of Sleeping Pills

Dry-Humping Parnassus

The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it 
one gets successfully through many a bad night. — Nietzsche
Dear Muse:

America the Beautiful has just begun feeding itself another year 
of reality shows, and I’m sitting alone at my empty desk with idle 

hands and a paralyzing conflict. I’m dressed in a button-down oxford 
shirt, pressed jeans, and polished brogues: I could very likely debauch  

every neglected housewife in my neighborhood. I should be thankful. 
But I was about to tell you my trouble: I’ve had it easy, too easy—

but no, that’s not it—and who am I, slagging off the popular merits 
of chasing the lowest literary lucre (while joking that that flight is 

already over-booked, and when the fad crashes, everyone on board
is going to be killed because their parachute colors are so last season)? Who am I, preferring to stay on the…

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