Death, Depressed, My favorites

A Letter to the Depressed Man on the Side of the Street

Dear Sad-Pants,

Everyday that I drive into town I pass by three homes for the elderly. The middle one is home to you. How bad is that home? How bad is it that you find the need to wheel your wheelchair out onto the sidewalk of the busiest, most dangerous corner in town and stare away from the road as if tempting some car to swerve off the side and end your life just a little early?

At least turn around so that you can meet your maker. There is nothing interesting to look at when you face that way. You are facing the propane tank used to power the middle school. Not even the middle school itself. If you were just a pervert and needed to watch the 7th graders reach for their books, I could deal with that, but why do you have to stare solemnly at a greenish-gray metal box of gas as if hoping that staring hard enough will cause it to explode, sending flames to engulf you and take you away from this earth just a little early?

Do you have no friends? Could you get nobody else to join you in your silent stare down the rocky hill that surrounds the power source of the school? Is that why you drape a monkey backpack over the back of your wheelchair? Is that supposed to be your friend? Let me tell you: that doesn’t count as a friend. Just because it has a face and arms and legs, does not mean it is an animate being. That’s a backpack. You’re supposed to put something in it. At least put useful shit in the backpack so that it can be a container of more than guilt for any passerbys as they imagine the story of the previous owner of said backpack. Was it a son or daughter of yours that lost their life in a fiery explosion among the rocks below? Was it the child that got away and blew the whistle on your underground dungeon of child sex slaves? Was it your first love that you met at age 10 while in child-spy school who told you to wear it so that she would be able to recognize you when she came back from her mission to Siberia? Are you just hoping that some psychopath who hates monkeys will mistake you for one and come after you with a buzzsaw and end your life just a little early?

Dude, get a hair cut. The bald with a tiny ponytail look is never a good look, but when staring in the general direction of a middle school it makes you look like a pedophile. When you stare just away from that school, you just look like a confused pedophile who is not very good at fulfilling his desires. My assumption is that you are just a normal old guy who can’t stare at a line of 6th grade girls without feeling uncomfortable, but you want to look like a pedophile so that some vigilante will stab you in vengeance for their father’s roaming hands so that you are pulled out of this world a little bit early.

Next time I go into town, I’m gonna run you over.

Your welcome,



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