DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the Simpsons characters.
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Perfected porcelain faces gazed down upon me from my pristine oak shelves, their many eyes wide and painted with judgment. My dog, Hercules, stared at me more with alarm than judgment, but with disapproval nonetheless. Photographs I had hung up on my walls, pictures of my parents, my friends, my ex-wifetheir eyes too met mine with shame. But the two faces that did not gape at me with denunciation or panic or disgrace were the faces of myself and Mr. Burns, in an enormous framed picture that hung above my bed. These faces were blank, cold, and admitted no emotion for me, not even in my current state. The eyes of my best friend expelled no change in their vacuity whatsoever, and my eyes matched this indifference. Mr. Burns didnt care about me, and therefore, I didnt care about myself. In fact, I rather hated myself, which made my decision that much simpler.