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I think of the summer I tried to kill myself by drinking pool cleaner. It did not work, obviously, because here I am to tell you about it. & because pool cleaner tastes like a chemical fire. But before that. Before I vomited deep into the frayed yarn of my first apartment’s turf-stiff carpet. Before the hospital lights. Before the security guard with the gentle-eyed German Shepherd. Before an intern put me on so much medication, I spent an entire August indoors in the company of crossword puzzles and Home and Garden TV, I dialed the number of the beverage distributor for whom I was working that summer stacking six-packs in superstores and gas stations, to let them know they should not expect me at work that afternoon, or the next one. & as I waited on hold for the receptionist to find my supervisor in the warehouse, the phone system played, “I’d like to buy the world a Coke.” I’ve never known if this made things worse or better: to want to disappear so badly, a chorus of happy strangers singing in my ear.