This is not a threat, nor a warn­ing, nor any­thing else. (I will reit­er­ate it at the end of the post.) That said, and sure to be ignored any­way, here it is.

There are two pud­dles of cat puke in my house, one on the stair­way (per­fectly arranged to be hit in the mid­dle of the night), the other in the upstairs bathroom.

In the last four weeks I’ve tossed about six hun­dred bucks into these sweet lit­tle crit­ters. And there is no guar­an­tee they’re going to be well. And they’re young. Ten or fif­teen years or so left to them…

Every idiot at work put on the Extra Idiot™ Né Plus Ultra hel­met and went way, way mega idiot.

So, slog­ging past the barf and think­ing about life in gen­eral, I thought, you know, I have the damn Bersa. This is a .45. It’s loaded with hol­low­points. Viscoelastic Shock ‘R’ Us.

When you think about it, I think it’s nor­mal. I think we all occa­sion­ally think, you know what, fuck this.

The ones who are cry­ing for help slit their wrists, or take pills, then call 911. Well, I’m not doing that. I’m not stand­ing on a ledge either, beg­ging for the world to shine its spot­lights on me.

It’s just been a tir­ing cou­ple of weeks, is all. I hate this time of year anyway.

I know this is mostly my own neural mis­fir­ing, my recur­rent dys­thymia. It’s not like I’m gonna shoot myself.

I won’t. Life is, over­all, pretty good. I’ve had some good days and good nights. Plus, I’ve had to clean up the after­math of a brains-​​shot sui­cide. In a word: Blecch. In two words: Jelly ewwwwwwwwww.

No, it’s a tired kind of thing. A back shelf kind of thing. If I get over­whelmed to the point that bla bla bla kind of thing. I have a pretty good idea how I’d react, for instance, to a diag­no­sis of Alzheimer’s.

Not even sure why I’m post­ing this, really, except I think this has always been a fairly hon­est, straight­for­ward blog, emo­tions and all. And, if the TSA keeps going as it has been lately, we’ll all be naked to each other anyway.

I know what I’m in. I know what clin­i­cal depres­sion is. And I know it will pass. I’ve been here since I was fif­teen or so. Still alive. Intend to con­tinue to be so.

Some days, in my dark­est days, the cer­tain knowl­edge of the .45 is enough to keep me going. Because I know how easy it would be to just stop. Well, easy has never been my per­sonal favorite track. I am a pro­fes­sional asshole.

This is not a threat, nor a warn­ing, nor any­thing else. I’m just really god­damned tired right now. It’s been a shitty week, but it’s not been a bad life, and I look for­ward to see­ing the sun rise on my self­ish lit­tle face again.

EDIT: Welcome, 2010. And, in advance, well, fuck you too.

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