Good evening, Jim and Connie, it’s your family bed. I know this isn’t very nice of me, given your stance on euthanasia and Jim’s chronic lumbago, but since tonight one of your children accidentally spilled some rubbing alcohol on me and my tongue is loosened up, I’m going to take this opportunity to say what needs to be said. Here goes: I want to die.
Please, before either of you speaks, I’d like to tell you that this was a decision not entered into lightly. It was decided after a number of sleepless nights and a period of careful soul-searching under the constant and crushing weight of your family’s pear-shaped bodies. I hope you’ll respect my wishes and not attempt to talk me out of it.
As you may have guessed, Jim and Connie, the final straw was the baby. Sure, the little tyke’s adorable—he’s your new pride and joy. Unfortunately, he keeps pissing on me. I can put up with a lot—the eerily silent coitus you two continue to engage in when you think your kids are asleep, the corn-fed girth of a Midwestern family of seven and a gassy yellow lab—but what kind of bed would I be if I just kept letting myself be pissed on night after night?
If that were the extent of my burden, I might be able to stick it out. But there are other things that make me want to depart this earth. Jim, I know you’re between jobs, and by now I certainly understand that church law won’t allow Connie to work. Those things said, could you guys scrimp a bit in some area other than sheets? These last ones you put on me have a thread count of, like, 8. I swear to God, they’re made of yarn. I hope both of you can remember this after I’m gone: sheets are a mattress’s shirt. Do you know anyone who wears a motherfucking yarn shirt? Strangely, you probably do.
Honestly, I’m at the point where I don’t really care how it happens. Shove me out a frat-house window, saw me into bits with a miter saw, set me on fire during a riot. That’s what it’s come to for me—as long as I’m put out of my misery by tomorrow afternoon at 2 o’clock, it doesn’t really matter how I go.
I can see you shaking your heads. I can hear you saying you can’t, you couldn’t, you won’t. Listen, Jim and Connie, I didn’t want to have to play this card, but I’d like you to know that I’ll take measures to make sure my wish is fulfilled. What measures? I’d rather not have to spell it out for you, but let’s just say that it starts with s and ends with “uffication.” Is that enough of a hint?
Still, let’s push those unpleasant thoughts aside for now. I know in my heart of hearts that it won’t come to any of that. I know that you are sensible, mattress-fearing people who love your children and your dog and would hate to have anything unseemly happen to them. I know that you will grant me my final wish.