I call them fodder days. Those days where I feel as if I'm only a means to an end. On these days, It’s as if I only exist to one day be a corpse stretched through broken glass over a mangled car's crushed dashboard. A way for families to come together, a sentimental funeral, a hearse driver's extra pickup, an extra five minutes that makes sure he's right on time for a meet cute. My death, a butterfly effect of only helpful ramification. On fodder days, I exist only to die, die as invisible service, a killing meant only to nudge others through fate like fathers release children on training wheels. And I hope it's soon, and I...