On the 33rd day after falling out of love, I attempted suicide in the psychological clinic for the fifth time.
This time I selected the frame of the Freud portrait on the wall—metal with sharp edges.
Just as he stood on tiptoe, the doctor's calm voice came from behind: "There is an explosion-proof transparent panel hidden behind the painting. If you remove it, it will cut your hands. I suggest you try the cactus on the window sill."
"Cactus?"
"Yeah, plastic. Smashing the flower pot will only result in non-toxic and harmless foam particles."
I collapsed and threw myself at the window, and he slowly added: "By the way, the laminated bulletproof glass was tested by the fitness instructor with a skull last time and scored excellent."
I turned around and saw him rolling up his cuffs, revealing the familiar bite marks on his wrists, with a bright smile: "Besides, I wore a full set of protective gear today."
