The motel was dirty and unpleasant to the normal person's judgement. However, it was a palace to Donnie, a fitting mausoleum for one such as he. The room took all of Donnie's money but 3 dollars. With that, he bought a bag of chips and a soda from the vending machine.
    He popped the cap on the bottle of Beam and took a long pull. Cracking the tab on the popcan, he used it as a chaser, to detract from the burn of the whiskey. He stared at the 35 cents in his hand. It was all he had. Land of opportunity, your promise fell short. Donnie tilts his hand and the coins fall, scattering across the table, some onto the floor. The whiskey warms him, making him lively. Finding the remote, he turns on the TV. The 5 o'clock news informs him just how shitty everything is. Another bank has gone belly-up, but before they closed shop, apparently they paid a few of their delinquent bills with customer funds. Now, the money that rightfully belonged to the savers was frozen, and couldn't be withdrawn.  Farmers were the main clients who were affected, the reporter said.
    Donnie chuckles cynically at this. It confirms all that Donnie had contemplated. Those that spent their lives tending crops and feeding the world got a rude awakening to the ignoble injustices of corporate robbing. There was too much evil now, and Donnie wanted to snuff himself out before things progressed any further.
    Donnie drank and drank until he passed out. The bed was amazing. Laying on a cardboard matte with a sleeping bag made Donnie appreciate the exquisite softness of the cheap hotel mattress.
    He woke 2 hours later. This chateau of crap was temporary, unless Donnie's ghost somehow haunted forever after he passed. His sorry soul would infest an even sorrier motel. He drank another shot of whiskey, which woke him entirely.
    He stripped and bathed. It was beautiful. The warm water soaked into his tissue, and warmed his bones. He sat in the tub for another hour taking drinks from the bottle of beam. He was only slightly disappointed he didn't have any weed. If he smoked, he might feel differently anyway. Suicide didn't coincide with pot, not to him anyway. The mary jane might very well convince him not to take his life, and he couldn't have that.
    Donnie wished he was dead.
    Well, he would get his wish today. As he sat in the bathtub, he got the idea. They call it a digital bath; A person submerges themselves in water and drops an alarm clock, or other electronic device in the water. Zap, there goes Donnie.
    Donnie became excited. It would be over soon. Unceremoniously, he masturbated. Might as well rub one out before eternal damnation, he thought. It went quickly, spitting into the water like a white oil spot, and spreading just the same. Donnie stepped out, avoiding the tendrils of semen, and drained the tub. He glanced at himself in the mirror. His corpse should be presentable, and so he shaves the mangy beard. It takes several lathers, and 2 razors. He had no aftershave, and so resorted to splashing cold water on his face. He even took the time to trim his elongated fingernails.
    He put back on his dirty underwear, making sure to turn them inside out to get more use of them. He debated washing his clothes in the tub with soap. What was the point of that, though? Donnie most likely would shit himself when death came to claim him. Besides, he'd already be in the water, wouldn't he?
    Donnie searched the room for an alarm clock. There was one on the bedside table. Donnie unplugged it and went into the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and paused. The face staring back at him was almost unrecognizable, especially without the beard. It was pale, and emaciated, and looked beyond tired. Soon enough, he would get all the rest he needed.
    The fucking cord wasn't long enough to reach the tub. Donnie felt stupid, standing there in a fresh tub of water, up to his shins, leaning out with the stubby alarm clock in his hand. He gritted his teeth in frustration. NOTHING was easy.
    He had about 2 hours left of his stay. In anoyment, he sunk on the edge of the bed and stared at the saint symbol ideograms on the carpet. He raised his head to look at the TV. It was an old tube-style console. Donnie knew it had enough juice to fry him, but it was too fucking heavy. He tried unsuccessfully to pick it up, but his muscles just trembled with the effort. Fuck. The grim reaper was not coming on swift wings.
    He laid on the bed and covered his face with a pillow, to block the light streaming in from the window. It was still snowing like mad. The clock was ticking. The hotel manager would clear the room at the end of his stay, whether Donnie was still alive or not.
    Donnie drifted off into dreamland again. He slept for another hour. Upon waking, Donnie felt a desperation he normally associated with withdrawal. He had to do this. The world had ceased being a place that tolerated those lesser off. He only had an hour to devise a way to kill this miserable fucking body of his. Stop the heart, cease the lungs, kill the brain, and then he's done.    
    Donnie frantically went inside the main lobby of the motel. There was a table set up for the continental breakfasts that were provided in the morning. Donnie had seen one item of particular interest when he checked in: the toaster. It wasn't your run of the mill bread-burner. It was a four-slot toaster, made to feed a family. Today it would feed Donnie's self destruction. Donnie glanced at the front desk. No one was tending to things. The manager was shoveling the walkway outside. Donnie heard the scuttling scrape of the metallic shovel. Taking a deep breath, Donnie unplugged the toaster.
    He lugged it up the stairs under his sweatshirt. Had he been a woman, he might've passed for being pregnant. As it was, Donnie was certainly conspicuous. Sweat dripped on his brow when he closed the front door to his room. It was T-minus 45 minutes and counting. Donnie was planning a different type of checking out, though.