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- by Matt Mattila
I have killed her in my head more times than I can count. I have attended her funeral. I have wept on her grave. I have cried alone in a room littered with pill bottles and years of filth because I wasn’t there to save her. Every unknown number from Connecticut is her final plea for forgiveness before she swallows the pills or slices the blade across pale blue-veined wrists. I am a bad son. I let her do this. It is all my fault.
Inspired by the never ending cycle of work and play that takes us from school and delivers us conveniently by the graveyard, Talking Soup shares the stories of everyday life however mundane or extraordinary.
Still looking for #submissions for the #Magazine. If you have had enough with the bollocks that you do, then write… https://t.co/C87l4p3VqZ
"Local Lad drinks one litre of Smirnoff, blames subsequent #poisoning on #russianspy #russianspypoisoning"
Does being perennially hungover at work qualify me for #Disability payments?