No one may ever know who killed Ada. It might have been her father, aptly named Roscoe, her coffeeshoppe pal called Tomi, a friend of hers with the name Cal, her nurse buddy by the name of Francesca, or anyone else.
There is no moral to this story. The story of Ada is that of a person with countless past, present, and future fuck-ups. And that is fine. The agenda is that we all do imbecilic actions and there is nothing wrong with that. We will die; unaware as to when, where, how, or with who. One thing is for certain: we are getting closer and closer to our own deaths as the seconds come go. Advice: do shit. Do not stand still in a neutral place while everyone around is up and running. Ada is an example — do illegal shit, have sex with people you should not, spill tea just because you can, get hospitalised for doing something stupid yet amazing, be and have a fine time with your friends, whatsofuckingever gets you off. Do not die without having done something remotely electrifying. Ada may have died tragically, but she lived wildly. And that is the way it supposed to be. Make the most out of this shit fucking world we live in. Die a fucking badass.
All the best,
Don
