Even as he bit down on the barrel, Mark thought, “This can’t be good for my teeth.” This thought instantly angered him. “Really, your teeth? How about the half inch piece of lead that is poised to explode through the back of your skull? That can’t be good for your hair. What if it leaves a bald spot? What will people think? And if too much blood drips down and permanently stains the wood floor panels, what will that do to the resale value of the apartment?” This anger with himself only made Mark want to do the bloody deed more. It was time to blow these angry thoughts across the room, flush them out with an intense flood of red rum. “But a note? Oh fuck, a note. I have to leave an explanation. But what the fuck do I say? Sorry maybe? I couldn’t take it anymore? Life has been too cruel and I am out of options? Fuck these are cliche. I really hadn’t given much thought to a note. A note should probably take weeks, months, years even. I can’t just jot down a quick idea or two, people are going to look deeply into this note to find clues about my tortured state. My family is going to hold onto this forever and wonder what pushed me into oblivion.” At this point Mark had realized he couldn’t possibly kill himself today, he hadn’t found the words to properly articulate his own demise, or cleared his browser history for that matter. So languidly he got up from the couch, walked into the lone bedroom in his apartment and slipped the weapon between the box spring and his mattress. He liked to keep it there to protect against any harm that could befall him at the hands of an intruder. Mark understood the irony of this reasoning but nevertheless allowed the revolver to remain in it’s usual resting place.