SKIRMISHER

Dear Penthouse Letters,

I don’t know how much longer I can go on.

Life seems so empty. Fruitless. Pointless.

Sometimes I take out the gun and just stare, wishing I had the fucking guts.

Then I open your magazine.

I see Breasts. I see Beaver. I see Hope.

Looking Forward to Next Issue, Wichita, KS

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