Sail on, Sailor

It is a shame that we meet because of this... My name is Jack Ounces, you may all know my oldest child, Forty Ounces. We meet because at 4:30am on March the 31st, my beloved child died of a self inflicted gunshot wound to the head. We hadn't been on the best of terms for the last several years of his life. He only tried to contact me when he needed money to fuel his drinking habit. I tried for years to get him to seek help, but he was too far gone. He was found in a railway car outside Durham, NC. Guards located his body on a pile of Olde English bottles. On his person, they found a harmonica, a bag of pipe tobacco, a picture of his estranged wife and a suicide note. It reads as follows:

"Dear hobos and fans of ranting everywhere. This is the last hoorah, motherfuckers! The last toast, the last cheers, the last straw. I have lived a failures' life. I have taken the low road when only the high road was offered. I have taken every chance possible to maintain my existence in the most pitiful condition as possible. No one loves a clown! No one loves a drunk! No one loves a bum! Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? NOBODY lives in a fucking pineapple under the sea! All that I have ever wanted was love. Not love from others, love from myself, for myself! Seeing as how I can't look in the mirror without shocking myself with all the feelings of hate, I have decided to put in the cork for the last time. I'm having difficulty getting a song out of my head. It's on Paul Simon's Still Crazy After All of These Years. The song is called "I Do it for Your Love." It's the part about the rug. "I found a rug in an old junk shop - I brought it home for you - on the way the colors ran - the orange bled the blue." I think that sums it all up. A lifetime of half-ass good intentions. I'm tired. I don't feel like writing anymore. When you find this, I will be worm food. Find Smarmy and return his .45 to him. Tell him I'm sorry for getting brain on it. I'll miss you all and I'll miss all of the good times I can't remember.

Yours,
40oz."

There will be no service for my son, as he has no one that will attend. As per his wishes, he is to be cremated. His ashes are to be baked in a cake that says "EAT ME" on top. His remains will then be shat out, floating away to the sea.

Sail on, Sailor.

Sincerely,
Jack Ounces