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           Iamhelpless. 

           Iamstupid,andallIdoiswantandneedthings. 

           Mytinylife. Mylittleshitjob.MySwedishfurniture. Inever,no,nevertoldanyonethis,butbeforeImetTyler, Iwasplanningtobuyadogandnameit"Entourage." 

           Thisishowbadyourlifecanget. 

           Killme. 

           Igrabthesteeringwheelandcrankusbackintotraffic. 

           Now. 

           Preparetoevacuatesoul. 

           Now. 

           Themechanicwrestlesthewheeltowardtheditch,andIwrestletofuckingdie. 

           Now.Theamazingmiracleofdeath,whenonesecondyou’rewalkingandtalking,andthenextsecond,you’reanobject. 

           Iamnothing,andnoteventhat. 

           Cold. 

           Invisible. 

           Ismellleather. Myseatbeltfeelstwistedlikeastraitjacketaroundme,andwhenItrytositup,Ihitmyheadagainstthesteeringwheel. Thishurtsmorethanitshould. Myheadisrestinginthemechanic’slap,andasIlookup, myeyesadjusttoseethemechanic’sfacehighoverme,smiling,driving, andIcanseestarsoutsidethedriver’swindow. 

           Myhandsandfacearestickywithsomething. 

           Blood? 

           Buttercreamfrosting. 

           Themechaniclooksdown. "HappyBirthday." 

           Ismellsmokeandrememberthebirthdaycake