You wanted to kill your girlfriend. She fled your demands and anxieties, and having to blow you in the bathroom at parties just so you could relax around her friends. You were always a bit uptight. I talked you out of it on the fading green sofa, my slobbering dogs on each side, you quivering in rageful sobs as they drank your tears, swallowing your sadness and failure. Hard to think about murder when a hundred and twenty pound bulldog flips on his back like some post-nuclear snorting shark and demands his belly rubbed. Bill, I am sorry I did not pay the parking tickets on time. I never was good at such things. I still am not, so who am I to say what is and is not a banishable crime. Remember the other dog Bill? Her spastic body knocking out how many ideations of your suicide? She is dying. Lymphoma. We are dying too, but just don't have confirmed seating assignments. I guess none of this matters now, but somehow, I want to think it does.