It's like: feelings (ew), this american life

a rain-soaked wonderland of gumballs and mutilated cattle, caught on 8mm film

By dusty (April 4, 2008)

Today I killed someone.

That is a total lie, actually. However, I feel like I killed someone today. And feeling like you have killed someone is a feeling that I can imagine is only furthered by the actuality of the act. That is probably not true at all either, but what I did do was tell my roommate I am moving out.

And knowing that he will never find someone as good as me; never find another man to secretly and deeply lust for; never find a man who looks this good with this beard; never find a man who will satisfy his hunger for perfection the way I most certainly do — that is a tough pill to swallow. (Seriously, though, I really hate swallowing pills. When I was a kid my mom even had to crush them and hide them in a brownie to get me to take them.)

So, left with the knowledge that I have surely crushed my roommate’s spirits and possibly driven him to the edge of the metaphorical cliff, or the theoretical bridge, or the figurative noose, I feel that I must do something to save him.

But what? A cake? What if I get the wrong kind? Does he even like cake? I think he might be lactose intolerant? A Valentine’s day card? Valentine’s day was weeks ago! A Mother’s day card? I am sure my own mother would be pissed.

The best solution I have come up with is to simply kill him in his sleep and save him from the misery he is surely feeling and will undoubtedly feel for the remainder of his life.

Because in the end, murder is just an act. And my new house is really cool.

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