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"  PLEASE LOOK INSIDE PLEASE  You&amp;#039;re reading this, so it&amp;#039;s too late. For me, I mean. I&amp;#039;m gone. That&amp;#039;s redundant, isn&amp;#039;t it? What the hell am I doing--only so much space on this napkin and I&amp;#039;m using it up on rhetorical questions? What a metaphor for life--a finite space, impossibly small. No way to fit a whole lifetime in there. But we sure do try. Oh God, I am annoying. I even annoy myself. I&amp;#039;m out of control with this kind of stuff, I know. This is why you never really loved me. Got one bullet in the chamber, barrel jammed in waistband, metal cold against my skin. One bullet, one napkin. Napkin that my last drink was sitting on. Jameson&amp;#039;s, rocks. Running out of space, so I&amp;#039;ll start to get to the point:  You said I&amp;#039;d get over it.  Should have made you a bet, because, hey, guess what, got a loaded gun in my underwear so it turns out I was right. Not that I can complain. Had some good years. My life, nutshell: 0\u20138 yrs. happy, no reason, 9\u201319 happy, wrong reasons, 20\u201333 unhappy for all the right reasons, 34 to present moment, unhappy, looking for a reason. Six major mistakes in my life. That&amp;#039;s about all you get, isn&amp;#039;t it? No matter where you start from, you mess up really big more than five times, you&amp;#039;re probably in a gutter somewhere.  What else can I say? Wish I&amp;#039;d treated people better. Sorry, please, thank you, you&amp;#039;re welcome. All human interaction pretty much covered by those four ideas. You&amp;#039;re not real, of course. You&amp;#039;re the woman I wish I&amp;#039;d met. If I&amp;#039;d met you, I wouldn&amp;#039;t be here now, writing on this napkin. So, yeah, a little angry. How does a perfectly average-looking guy like me end up so unfathomably lonely by the age of 41? It&amp;#039;s the day after Christmas. Got one present this year, from my Uncle Jim. The widower. A card and a ten dollar bill. Fixed income, best he can do. He&amp;#039;s in assisted living, room smells like pee. Stares out the window all day. Every year, same gift. I&amp;#039;m leaving it on the bar as a tip. The card, I&amp;#039;m keeping. I hope you read this, whoever you are, and imagine that there is a hypothetical person out there who needs your love, has been waiting silently, patiently for it all his life, is flawed and downright ugly at times and yet would have just eaten up any tiny bit of attention you had been willing to give, had you ever stopped your own happy life to notice. And then imagine that this hypothetical person is real, because he probably is. Guess that&amp;#039;s all. Ha. Here I was worrying about space, and now I&amp;#039;ve run out of things to say. Wish I knew a joke to insert HERE. The car says For My Nephew in cursive. No joke inside. That cursive just breaks my heart. Wish I&amp;#039;d met you. Wish I wasn&amp;#039;t your hypothetical. But you&amp;#039;re reading this, which means a few minutes ago, I went into that bathroom and pulled the trigger. You probably heard it. Sorry. You&amp;#039;re welcome. Thank you. And please. Please, please, please, please, please, please, please. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/entertainment/books/a2528/esq0207yu/>