I’m on the verge. It’s getting to be too much. Why can’t I change? Jesus, it’s killing me. The cowardice, how can I even look my family in the face? Can’t they see? I’m a joke. I might as well put a shotgun to my neck and see if I can’t blow my head off, but leave it intact. That would give them something to talk about when I’m gone. As of now, there is nothing left to look forward to, no memories to hold on to. My life has been so uneventful; I’m embarrassed to talk about it. Sometimes I just wish it was over, but I’m too fucking stubborn to kill myself. Thanks a lot Camus, you can go fuck yourself, I wish I’d never read the Myth of Sisyphus.

But what can I do? There is no picking up the pieces, it’s easy to say there is, but you must understand, I am an unreasonable person. What I want is material and selfish and ignorant, but others have it, why can’t I? Writing has gotten my nowhere, I wish I’d never picked up the pen, it’s done nothing, but drain me of life and energy and now I’m bound to it in such a nauseating paste, I can’t break free. My mind is stale, I was never meant to be anything other than I am, a fool, a lonely dim witted insolent fool.

Why even read this? Better question, why take the time to write it? Perhaps I need to break away, tear myself from the grips of rational friends who only try to help me, maybe what I need is a little hard earned solitude, pry myself from the clutches of family and opt for the disease infested, seedy areas of towns and countries with far away names and exotic vices that one can grow fat and sick on. Perhaps I need a little death in a Parisian alleyway, Bar fights in Chicago blues bars, herpies from a Mexican bar maid? Maybe that will set the soul right?

Whatever I’m doing here isn’t working, trying to be something great that is your first mistake. Don’t every try to be anything, let it happen naturally. That’s the only way. Organic, that’s the new sensation. Writing is a fool errand. If you make the decision to be a writer, know, it’s something that eats away at your soul, for if you’re doing it right, it takes a piece of you, you put your soul into with such a fever, you can’t come away from it with your soul untorn. Perhaps that’s me trying to make excuses, probably is, most people probably have no problem writing, that’s how you know I’m a fake, a jackass, who stands a desk all day chipping away at a laptop, forcing himself to do something that makes him important, but I never feel important, there is no one that sees as me as an important part of their life, there is only me, the fool who spends his days looking at a computer screen, hoping it will someday, make sense to somebody.

Instead of writing, I should have spent my day pursuing happiness. There is nothing happy about my life. But that is my own doing; I can’t blame anyone for that. I should have sought love after love after love, I should have paid more attention in school than done my drugs of choice, I should have learned from my parent’s mistake. But what’s the point of looking back and highlighting all the mistakes of the past, when there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it, why complain in the written form when you can go out and change it with actual actions? I’m drunk writing this, and I don’t mind saying it. Perhaps that’s why I’m so candid, so unafraid to record my true feelings, sitting around a table with friends I often wonder if they are aware to the bloody thoughts running through my head like a track team on coke. Suicide! I want to scream at the apex of my lungs capability, “Suicide! Kill me, Kill me now I say!” But I doubt it, they are friends, but I’m good at concealing what I’m thinking. I’m mysterious, but not in a good way.

I think about suicide much more than anyone should, if you’re a writer, it sours the prose with bitterness. But I, as of yet, have not yet followed through with the maddening voice inside my head that says ‘do it! Do it! You know you have nothing else to look forward too! Do it! And rid yourself of this disappointment that is you! You’re not a man, look at how you mother looks at her co-workers sons, with their wives and kids, then to you, the sad, horrible, dismal, foul waste of existence. They cut her open to extract you from her! The Gods work in mysterious ways, granting you life only to show your respect by spending your life alone and in such a melancholy solitude, you might as well suffer from leprosy. No one will ever touch you.”

But that is just the drunk me talking, I’m a good person, but I bury him deep beneath the self-loathing and the insecurity. Sometimes, I want to kill myself, but that feeling flees, not quickly, but with careful thought. I’m too stubborn to end it now, too self-reliant, too masochistic, too contrary, I’d cut my nose off just to spite my face. Instant self-imposed Death isn’t the answer folks, all you need is a good kick in the ass and good night’s sleep, if you wake up and you still want to kill yourself, well, just see how the day plays out and get back to me in the evening.