No, this is not about Halloween or All Saints Day, but it is appropriate since Halloween and All Saints Day are a few days away. This is about the dead, yes. Specifically, me. See, a year ago, I wrote a sappy blog entry called A Book Called Trouble. I talked about writing a book about a girl, the last chapter dedicated to the many ways she kills me every single day. Now feels like the right time to outline this last chapter. It seems certain that no more chapters will be written. This is going to be another sappy blog entry, so if you don’t feel like reading something that could make you barf, get out. GET OUT NOW.

Still here? Awkward. And now, let me tell you about the many ways that I’ve died at the hands of the girl called Trouble.

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A fat douchebag walks into a bar

I sat alone at one of the little tables at IC’s Bar in Los Baños. I ordered their famous quarter pounder burger and a bottle of San Mig Light. I was thinking about the stupid life choices I made that led me to that lonely situation. I was thinking about what beer could do to my body if I’m taking antibiotics, because I totally am. I was thinking about the burger and how delicious it was. I kept checking my phone, somehow hoping for a miracle. And then an old man walked into the bar.

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