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59 AFTER SUICIDE At the party celebrating me, you always show up late and dead. Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong. No one gets the door; we know better. You let yourself in, sidle up to people who never knew you and tell them jokes. I have such terrible aim, I had to shoot myself twice. Three suicidal Norwegians walk into a bar. The first one complains of a splitting headache and orders a beer, a gun, and two bullets. I’ve heard it. We all have. Unable to ignite even a sizzle of laughter you put a flashlight into your mouth and turn it on. On the wall behind you, 60 a coin of light hovers like the miniature sun a magnifying glass makes. Your head’s a projector showing the movie of your death. We sip our drinks with unease as, luckily, the wall begins to smoke and everyone runs out onto the cool lawn to watch the house burn, relieved you’re still inside. ...

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