blah, blah, blah. Now blah, blah, blah is all I do. I use my grand IQ to decide what colour gloss to wear and how to hit three keggers before curfew. Heather Chandler is one bitch that deserves to die. Killing her won't solve anything. I say we just grow up, be adults and die. But before that... I'd love to see Heather Chandler puke her guts out. Trust me, she skips the Saturday morning trip to grandma's even when she's not hung over. We'll just concoct ourselves a little hangover cure that'll induce her to spew red, white and blue, then. What about milk and orange juice? What's the up-chuck factor on that? I'm a no-rust-build-up man, myself. Don't be a dick. That stuff will kill her. I know, we can cook up some soup and put it in a Coke. That's pretty sick, eh? Should it be chicken noodle or bean with bacon? Put a lid on that stuff. I say we go with big blue here. What are you talking about? She would never drink anything that looked like that, anyway. So we'll... put it in this. She won't be able to see what she's drinking. Let me get a cup, jerk. OK. Milk and orange juice. Maybe we could, like, cough up a phlegm globber in it or something. - No? - Nothing. Oh, well. Milk and orange juice will do quite nicely. You're chicken. You're not funny. I'm sorry. - Uh, Veronica? - What? Uh, never mind. I'll, er, carry the cup. Morning, Heather. Veronica... and Jesse James. Quelle surprise. Hear about Veronica's affection for regurgitation? Last night we both said things we didn't mean. Did we? How did you get in? Um... Veronica knew you'd have a hangover so, uh, I whipped this up for you. It's a family recipe. What, you put a phlegm globber in it? I'm not going to drink that piss. I knew this stuff'd be too intense for her. Intense. Grow up. You think I'll drink it just because you call me chicken? Just give me the cup, jerk. Corn nuts. Oh, my God. I can't believe it. I just killed my best friend. And your worst enemy. Same difference. Ohh... What are we going to tell the cops? "Fuck it if she can't take a joke, Sarge." Cops. I can't believe this is my life. Oh, my God. I'm going to have to send my SAT scores to San Quentin instead of Stanford. All right, just a little freaked, here. At least you got what you wanted. Got what I wanted? It's one thing to want somebody out of your life, it's another thing to serve them a wake-up cup full of liquid drainer. All right, we did a murder and that's a crime, but if this were like a suicide thing, you know? Like a suicide thing? Yeah, yeah. You can do Heather's handwriting as well as your own, right? Right? - Yeah. - All right. You might think what I've done is shocking? Yeah. Um... to me, though, suicide is the natural answer to the myriad of problems life has given me. That's good but Heather would never use the word myriad. This is the last thing she'll ever write, she'll want to use as many 50-cent words as possible. She missed myriad on the vocab test two weeks ago. That only proves my point more. The word is a badge for her failures at school. Oh. OK, you're probably right. People think just because you're beautiful and popular, life is easy and fun. - Yeah. - Uh... no one understood I had feelings too. I die knowing no one knew the real me. That's good. Have you done this before? Any other principal would take the same position - keep things business as usual. Heather Chandler's not your everyday suicide. - She was very popular. - If I let these kids out before lunch, the switchboard would light up like a Christmas tree. I was impressed that she made proper use of the word myriad in her suicide note. I find it profoundly disturbing that we're told of the tragic destruction of youth and all we can think to talk about is adequate mourning times and misused vocabulary words. Oh, Christ! We must revel in this revealing moment. Look, I suggest
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