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Life was hard. Life was tough. John had no family. He had no friends. He had no future. He had given up. In the last month, he had probably said, "I wish I was dead," 1,000 times a day. Sometimes he would repeat the words for five minutes at a time. All he thought about was death. When he saw a rope, he thought about hanging himself. When he saw a knife, he thought about stabbing himself. He went to the beach. He looked at the ocean. He thought about drowning himself. He walked along the beach. He found an old, slimy, green bottle. He picked it up. There was a cork in it. He pulled out the cork. Maybe the fumes will kill me, he thought. Instead, a genie appeared. "I will grant you any wish," the genie said. "I wish I was dead," John said out of habit.
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