I’m alive today. I shouldn’t be. That’s such a weird thing to say, or even think.
Today is my plus one day.
I had it all planned out. I’d “googled” how to’s and covered all my bases. It’s not the first time I’d tried to end it all but it was going to be the last. I’m pretty wimpy. It couldn’t hurt, or leave a mess for anyone to clean up or cause any sort of trauma to anyone else. I don’t have access to a gun, although that strikes me as awfully messy. Or sleeping pills. I thought about using my prescription but my whole two months worth of pills that I have hoarded doesn’t even exceed the maximum single dosage.
Google told me that too.
I’m an easy drunk and apparently drugs hit me like a freight train.
I figured that out on my own.
So now I’m stuck in this weird “failed again” land. No one knows I failed except me and the dog but I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m half crazy already. Maybe a little more than half…In any event she doesn’t seem to hold this failure, or any others, against me.
I bought about a dozen notebooks two days ago. Had great ambitions of filling them full of the saga that was my life. Something for prosperity. An explanation if not an excuse. Unfortunately, I write something like a 7 year old boy. I cant even read it.
There went that idea.
I have visions now of mountains of notebooks filled, line by line, with the random ramblings of half crazed wanna-be writer. Like the bad guy in the movie “Seven”…would I colour code mine too? How would I classify them. Would it even matter in the end?
The morning after I concocted this genius plan of mine I was provided salvation from a situation I saw no way out of.
And so the briquettes got packed away and my escape plan remained unknown to anyone but me. And the dog.
And the urge to chronicle the events that led me to that point, again, has faded. I’m ambivalent as a writer. Heck, I’m ambivalent as a human being.