The ambulance driver is kind. He tells you everything is going to be alright.
The doctor is kind. She tells you everything is going to be alright.
The nurses are kind. They tell you everything is going to be alright.
Your mom is kind. She tells you that she told you to never move to that part of town.
You're released and try your best to get on with life. You apply for new freelance work. You show strangers your wound and get them to kiss you. It seems like everything is sliding back into place. And then the bill arrives. It's worse than the stabbing. It's, like, three times your gross domestic earning. Selling assignments is never going to pay for this thing, it's time to start selling your ass or something. Wow. You're doomed.
Are you concerned that you may be a character trapped in a Tom Waits song? Be smart and learn the warning signs before it's too late. Also, it's too late. It has always been too late.
I'm haunted by a recurring vision of a skeleton flipping me off. To avoid seeing this terrifying image in bumper sticker form, I pay someone with a blank bumper to drive in front of me at all times.
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