He wrote the words “Please Kill Me” on it and handed it to me. One of the clerks, Chris, ripped out a tiny slip of paper from behind the counter. I used to hang out at a record store in South Florida, where I'm from, and at one point the store clerks decided to take me under their wing. Please Kill Me made its way into my life 13 years ago, when I was 14. "Well, if this is your bible," he said, "then I must be God!" Easing his cigarette into his mouth, he took my withered and beloved book into his hands, and flipped open to the title page, pink pen poised at the ready. He laughed and flicked ash onto the sidewalk. "Your book is the closest thing I've ever had to a bible," I said when I walked up to him, shaking his hand. He did a reading at a gallery in the East Village and was standing outside afterward having a smoke, informally signing some books.
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