Once home, Jerry runs into his bathroom, passing the cold alphabet soup on his way. His depression worsens as he passes the soup. The microwave was just in another room but it was too far away to worry about. So obviously the answer laid in the blade.

He ran through room rummaging through each one. Finding nothing he was about to give up until he reached the mystical bathroom. In the bottom right drawer sat his precious shiny blade. He looked at awe as he grabbed the blade and it shines in the florescence lights. It was the chosen blade, the one to end it all.

Jerry had picked it up with the sharp pointy side on his wrist. He started counting with each slice.

1 2 3 4 House 666 7 8 69. Suddenly, he thought about the last time he had 69ed which was never because Jerry is a sad virgin fuckboi.

"Wait what am I doing again," he thought aloud. He looked down at his wrists and panic flooded his system. There was blood and Jerry can't stand blood. Jerry wiped out his dick and his phone at the same time. He rejoiced at the awesomeness of that before calling 911.

"911, what's your emergency?" Said a flamboyant gay voice.

"I don't know what happened! I was counting and the thinking about cornhub and then I looked down and there was blood," Jerry sobbed out like the pathetic bitch he is.

"Help is on the way!" The faggot said and it was. A few minutes later, Jerry was on the way to the hospital.