So here I lay nearing death on the streets of Hollywood. It didn’t have to be like this, Roger, but YOU my former friend, are now a murderer.
I know that I don’t have much time left. I can feel it where my skin used to be. Not only did you dispose of me and leave me for dead, but you also stripped me of my dignity the night you got high on bath salts and cut into me.
Until that night, we were good. I comforted you and you gave me a reason to be. And then your friend Roger told you to destroy me. There he stood over me, egging you on as you cut into me like the cheap flank steak you eat night after night, alone off of a paper towel that sits on your filthy kitchen counter. I watch you stand with only a fork in hand as you lift that shitty meat to your mouth and tear into it like a coyote does its prey. And by the way, who has a best friend with the same name? Did you find each other on samenameddickheads.com?
I used to feel sorry for you, but no more. It’s bad enough that I will die at your hands, but what’s worst of all, is that you remain silent as Roger continues to hurt me. As I sit here helpless and nearing my expiration, he continually walks past and kicks me. Last week he spat on me and laughed. His spit thick and smelling of Newport cigarettes and a GED.
I do; however, take solace in the fact that Mrs. Anglos from apartment 105 was kind enough to place a simple memorial flower on top of me. This will most likely be the last act of human kindness that I will ever see, but at least I can leave knowing that one person cared about me.
Roger and Roger or Roger Squared as you fondly call yourselves, I hope you both get trapped in your Murphy bed where you will stay for weeks until the hunger is so unbearable that you have no choice but to eat your own kind. It is then that you must decide which Roger will live and which Roger will die.
Wishing cannibalism on you both,
The Leather Couch Who Used To Love You
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