The epitome of self-destruction involves hauling out the speakers on the patio and patching them into the ones in the garage and then playing love songs from the early eighties so loud I've already blown five out of eight of these suckers and I fully intend to blow the rest. Dalton tried to stop me but I screamed at him and he backed away.
Wait, the epitome of self-destruction is being fucking drunk on a Monday morning! What do I win?
When the cops show up with the noise complaint any minute now I think I'll entertain them with a gunfight and then my big plan is to light myself on fire and throw myself off the cliff before anyone can stop me. I'm small, I'm fast and clearly right now I'm flammable, thanks to all of this bourbon in my bloodstream. I'll jump in slow motion to the strains of Air Supply or REO Speedwagon. Chicago. Fuck, Hall & Oates, bitches.
I wonder what Jacob heard on the way down?
(The ipod wouldn't work when they gave it back to me. There wasn't enough of it left.)