Frank's Wild Years

Frank was sad. It was that deep black hole of depression that sits just above your stomach and gradually pulls you inward with its infinite gravity until you're crumpled into a little ball of sorrow and self-loathing. Frank wanted to die, except he was too much of a coward to go through with it. What if it hurt? Frank hate pain even more than he hated himself. What if he screwed it up? Lord knows, he was a total incompetent. If something could screw up, he was the type who would definitely fuck that shit up. He could easily imagine himself stuck in a wheelchair the rest of his life because he had flinched as he pulled the trigger, just nicking the spine enough to paralyze but not kill. He wouldn't even be given another chance to finish the job with his arms dangling uselessly and surrounded constantly by medical staff. This thought just depressed Frank further.

Then Frank farted. Turns out it was just gas all along.