Alcohol makes you buy stupid shit.

And what’s worse is, I’m too attached to the stupid shit that I buy.

Last week I crashed out the house…purchased a calendar. A sweet looking thing, though; idyllic backdrops with eccentric fonts. Perhaps this calendar will enrich my life.

But when I checked the calendar the next day: only eleven months.

“Man,” I muttered to myself, “am I so hungover I’m seeing it wrong?”

When sober, I realised I hadn’t miscounted. The idyllic backdrops and eccentric fonts were unchanged.

I returned to the shop, told the cashier, and showed him the missing month. He eyeballed me warily and said he couldn’t help.

Three weeks have passed since then. Seven months remain on the calendar.

I’ve tried to limit my alcohol intake, which has blessed me with feverish, itchy, and at times, manic episodes.

I’ve told my wife, my daughter, that something terrible might happen.

“This isn’t right,” I said. “And the cashier thought I was crazy.”

“Oh, honey,” said my wife, embracing me. “Roxanne, come over here and give your father a cuddle.”

“Seriously,” I continued, “I believe this is a sign of some sort. I might be endangered! We might be endangered! You know, Roxanne, daddy has always said he would protect you and mummy if anyone broke in. You know that right?”

She nodded and dashed away.

I reached for a bottle of gin but my wife stopped me.

“This is the last state you want to be drinking in,” she declared, as I rested my head on her shoulder.

During the night I slipped out of bed. Beloved spirits cabinet. Chug the glorious gin.

I managed to hold it down until I reached the toilet.

In the morning I rushed to the calendar, my head a large pulsating brick.

“Huh…” I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. “Two…days?”

The mania sprouted. I raced downstairs in a fit of tears, almost stumbling, crashing against the wall.

A note on the fridge: GONE TO THE PARK, YOU DIDN’T LISTEN…

p.s. YOU WERE SICK ON MY PILLOW.

“Shit,” I thought, sighing.

Two days. I paced around the house. Two. Less than three, more than one, half of four, 48…

Simply put, I couldn’t endure whatever awaited me. The sweat on my back was a pool of impending blood. My wife and daughter had been out for hours. I’d tried calling several times.

“Well…” My voice trembled.

For many years I’d had it tucked away in my drawer, never even used it once. Not until today. With the timid wind cracking by my window, I felt the exhalations, counted them. Then I put the gun to my head and fired.

Somehow I was alive, though I couldn’t say how long for.

A voice, two voices. My wife entered…my daughter…they stood there watching me, but I couldn’t move my eyes.

Then I heard my wife’s voice: “Roxanne, we won’t be needing those scissors tonight.”