S*icide

When I was 9 years old, I wrote it more succinctly than I will ever be able to for the rest of my, possibly very short, life.
"I WANT TO DIE"
Written in bold capitals on the bottom of a page of a diary that was scribbled full of stories about how I was being bullied - no, excuse me - teased at school. I don't know why it was so hard for me to use the word "bullied".

Wouldn't that be the most fantastic eulogy, just that excerpt from my diary, and nothing else? It's been nearly 20 years, but some things stay the same no matter how long ago they were. I still feel like an unlovable piece of garbage, though my 9 year old self probably would have expressed that sentiment in a different way, such as "nobody likes me". Yes, that's it.

I could go on and on about how being abandoned by my very best friends in my time of need has brought me to this point, but I worry no one gives a single fuck. I can already see you, dear reader, spacing out from the boring story ahead, so let's not. Instead, let's bring it back to the initial thought.

I want to die. It's going to happen. Probably sooner rather than later. Today? Eh, unlikely. Tomorrow? Slightly less so.