Dear Number One,
I love you dearly. You are a good boy. And you have great musical talent. But holy hell, take that $6 recorder from music class and shove it up your ass. No, I’m not kidding.
I cannot take another second. I cannot. I know you are playing Ode to Joy (very well, I might add), but all that is penetrating my brain is which would be the fastest way to kill myself this instant. Pills would take too long, and I don’t own a gun, so I’m thinking I’ll slit my throat. Yes, that’s it. I will slit my throat if I have to hear one more shrill note blown through that plastic peice of shit. And I don’t love pain, or the sight of blood, and the kitchen is white and your brothers will be scarred forever, so can we please just save a life and CUT IT OUT with the flute??
You’re almost 11. Go play the skin flute. It’s quiet and you can do it in your room.
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