Thoughts I Have When I Don't Follow Through With My Routine

I held the bullet to my lips, the metallic, greasy taste making me want to retch. I kissed it softly, loading it into a silver revolver that smiles like a wolf in the moonlight. Just a game, I whisper, just a game, as I spin the cylinder before it clicks into place, a soothing sound.

When he reads the note I left, I'm sure he'll sink to the floor, writhing in agony, wailing even, surely lamenting over the loss of a loved one.

But for now, I've smoothed the yellowing paper, smearing the ink of my goodbyes. The gun's to my temple, where it's always belonged, and a smile lingers on my lips. Just a game, I whisper, but I'm feeling lucky.