Coming soon to a morgue near you

Friday, November 25, 2005
Steve's house

If I ever kill myself, it's going to be with a gun.

Why the hell people climb to the tops of buildings and jump is beyond me. It just seems like so much work. And pills? You have to be careful not to scarf down too many at once, lest you puke up the whole mess. And if you take them too slowly, you'll go to sleep, and wake up still alive. Bummer, ain't it?

A firearm presents the quickest, easiest means to off oneself: Place gun in mouth; aim up slightly, at the brain stem; pull trigger, and slump lifelessly down to the ground as bluish-grey brain matter hits the wall behind you at roughly 600 MPH.

I've been thinking a lot about killing myself over the past day. I talk from time to time about wanting to have a wife and a family someday, and I still do. But the more I ponder it, the more I think that it will never happen for me.

For a long-term relationship, I would need an emotionally mature, intelligent woman. Someone just like Stephanie, who loved me and who probably would have walked barefoot over alcohol-soaked broken glass for me. But, although everything was going well, I pushed her away. I say, "She broke up with me" as an excuse to make it her fault. It wasn't; it was mine. The whole thing felt unnatural, like trying to sign your name with the wrong hand, and I was relieved when it was over.

The truth is, I was greedy. I was addicted to the idea of conquering. I didn't like being with one person. I wanted more attention, more affection. I felt like I was missing something, so I deliberately tested Stephanie, pushed her to prove herself to me over and over again, until she finally gave up. That was what I truly wanted.

Then I took up with Tim, and to my surprise things progressed, and I fell for her. I fell deeply in love, moreso than I've ever been, but in the back of my mind, I always knew it wouldn't work out. How could it? Tim was just as screwed up as I was; maybe even worse.

Maybe I loved her because she reminded me that someone was worse off than I was; maybe it was just my self-centeredness rearing its head again. Maybe, subconsciously, I was drawn to her because I knew it was temporary. Maybe I am incapable of a long-term relationship; maybe I'm just not wired for it.

Anyway, it doesn't matter. It's over with Tim now. The relationship failed miserably, just like it was always destined to.

Lila? She's too young, and again, a train wreck waiting to happen. I've never known anyone who's lived through so much drama at such a young age. If I ever married her, I'm sure our house would get struck by lightning the first day.

The ones who are capable of long-term relationships I have no interest in; the bad choices are the ones I love. And there's no future with them.

There is no point in me living my life like this. I don't care how much money I make or what nice stuff I buy. I don't want to be a nursing home-bound 80-year-old man spending eight hours a day propped up in a urine-soaked geri-chair, staring absently at a grainy TV screen, catching imaginary flies with my tongue, counting the days until my grown neices and nephews come for their monthly fifteen-minute visit, which will inevitably be filled with twelve and a half minutes of uncomfortable silence. I'd rather die now.

Maybe I wasn't meant to live past 35. Maybe I wasn't meant to live past 2005. Maybe I wasn't meant to live past November 25.

It probably wouldn't hurt a bit. If I blew out the back of my head, I wouldn't feel a thing.

My heart races; my mouth goes dry. Would I do it? Would I do it right now, if I had a gun in the house?

I don't have a gun. So I just sit here, staring at my computer screen, and crying like a big fucking baby.

Eventually, I fall asleep.