Dr. Scott,

I hope the malpractice suit is going well. We’re all rooting for you back at the office—it’s clear that child molested himself with a stethoscope.

Let me be frank—I want you to euthanize me. I’m financially ruined. And not just temporarily, like the banks, but forever, like the poor. I gambled all my money on the stock market, took the millions I made and lost them in a casino, found them in the bathroom, and then lost everything in a phishing scheme. I can’t even look my children in the eyes, because they can’t believe I visited the slot machines without them.

I am a coward. I mean, that’s why I’m asking you to kill me instead of taking myself out the old- fashioned way—in my garage with the car running, Candle in the Wind playing, and a double- barreled shotgun in my mouth, suffocating me.

When you come to euthanize me, surprise me. You aren’t the first doctor I’ve asked, because I’ve punched the last three who have tried. If I even see a needle in my peripherals, everything goes black, then my vision goes back to normal, and I execute a perfect roundhouse kick. So, if I attack you, please know it’s not personal. It’s so much more than that. I love you like a brother, and any brother of mine would be happy to put me down for good. Instead, try to come over while I’m sleeping, or right now, after I’ve taken all these barbiturates and drunk all this vodka.

And after I’m gone, please tell my wife. Euthanasia is not suicide, and there’s no chance she’ll figure out what happened without a note. I’m down to two candidates for my last words, so feel free to lie if I choose the one that’s slightly racist.

See you soon, I hope, 

Bob Hornhill