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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