You tried to kill yourself once by swallowing a bottle of pills. You’re terrible at swallowing pills so you had to crush them one by one and take them with a spoonful of jam.

After four or five spoonfuls the jam started to make you feel sick, so you called a suicide helpline to see if they had any suggestions. They just insisted that you not do it at all, so no help there.

You decided to write a suicide note.

It was beautiful. The emotion was palpable. The metaphors were sublime without being precious or self-indulgent. You evoked sadness but not through guilt or self-pity. Unlike every other failure in your life, this was something worth living for. You decided to share your gift.

You agree that this is very morbid.

But you put up an ad and get some responses and soon word spreads in the suicidal community that you’re really quite good. It’s nice to be recognized for your talents.

You’ll have gotten into a disconcertingly easy pace when one afternoon you’ll meet a woman. She will be tragically beautiful, like a young widow or the daughter of a retired NASCAR driver. She’ll invite you into her apartment which will be immaculate. She didn’t want people thinking she was a slob, she said. You nodded, trying not to break into the giddy smile you sometimes get in the presence of exciting beauty.

“How do we do this?” she’ll ask with a shrug.

You’ll tell her that it can be overwhelming to try to fit every thought onto the page. As much as she might want to speak to every single person in her life in this one moment, you’ve found it’s often best to speak to just one person.

“Just sit down and talk to me,” you’ll say.

You’ll both sit down on her couch. Most of the springs are busted out, so you both sink deep into it, almost falling into each other.

“Sorry,” she’ll say, “I’ve had this couch since college.” She smells like black cherries.

She gets that you don’t want to hear the longest story of her life. You just want to hear what she’s thinking right now, as if these are her last five minutes. A lot can happen in five minutes.

She’ll tell you about how she has come to acknowledge that her feelings are too much for her and have been for too long, about how centered she feels at this moment. She knows that she has loved many things but that her love has become confused or that her mind has turned it against her or something like that. She has a lot of pretty hair.

“That’s why you’re here,” she’ll say. “I can’t get this out properly.”

“I think I’m here to make you feel something.” You take her hand. “I think I’m here to be with you, sexually at first, but then emotionally, and then forever.”

She’ll pause, then vomit on you, which makes sense, really. She won’t apologize. But she won’t kill herself either. Because in that moment you gave her hope. You showed her that life is really just a series of loosely connected moments.  As she looked at the horny puke covered stranger on her old couch, she became aware that the way she had been connecting life’s moments had been making her sad and that she should stop it, because she was finding it very hard to connect this moment to her broken way of thinking. And if she could find more moments like these, she might stop her broken thinking altogether.

You’ll have a very large erection, because being vomited on is kinda your thing.

YOU’RE THE SUICIDE NOTE GHOSTWRITER!