A Note Left

 I've always felt like I won the lottery. I mean, I have a loving wife and daughter, an enviable job, more friends than I can give my rare sparetime to, and about as much control of my alcohol consumption as one could want. A fair portion of said friends envy my wealth and possessions.

Money has never been a problem, and my wife spends more on herself and our girl than most ever get to. Rufus, our Golden Retriever, adores me as I do him. My sleek black '24 Range Rover occupies our attached two-bay, surrounded by but safely distanced from my seldom-used DeWALT collection. Here's where things get sticky. They're getting too close. Investigating the latest discovery- my most recent mistake- and following a lead from an alleged eyewitness, the police are zeroing in. Oh sure, I haven't been questioned yet, but it's coming. I can feel it. What I thought was a stretch of lonesome former cattle path was popular with joggers and the like. I'd gotten lazy and didn't dig this one deep enough.

 Unable to feel remorse and regretting only that I was about to get caught, I felt the time was right. Goodbyes suck, so this will have to do. I'm sorry, Susie. You were the best. Jill, listen to your mom. Grow up to be the best. Rufus, don't worry, pal. Your mom will likely meet someone who'll love you almost as much as I did. God, past tense really hits home. My clock is ticking. My girls are off to visit the in-laws for the weekend. Fuck the garden hose; this calls for the leftover length of flexible foil dryer vent. See, I'm actually using some of my tools (if you consider duct tape a tool). I know this is chicken shit. I'm sorry, but only because I know Susie will be the one who finds me. Please don't hate me, Sue.