She sent him a picture of her friend throwing up into a toilet when he told him he thought about killing himself.
"This is what I have to deal with. Sort yourself out," was the accompanying text-message.
Thinking about that picture makes him wonder why he didn't hang himself that day. A drunk friend with her cheek on a cold toilet seat was more worthy of her time than the ending of his life that day. He imagined that if she did get a picture of his lifeless body, she would not as much as change weekend dinner plans. His life had value if it was useful in her fictional idealized future. If it didn't, his life was insignificant.
It had been raining all day and he hadn't left his room. "What's the point?" He wondered. He saw a CD by the Beatles on his couch, Help. He got it a two years ago when he was editing The Village Voice. It had come in the mail. He loved it. It was broken in two on his couch now. It was her favorite band.
"Who gives a shit, John? No one cared while you're here and everyone loves you when you are dead."
Happy Thanksgiving.