I can’t do it myself.

It would have to be a freak accident.

Like a lightning bolt.

It’s my mom. And my dad, but he has Dillon.

It’s my friends.

It’s how easily my actions could be misinterpreted and twisted to mean something besides I just wanted to stop.

It’s the fact that I’ve never seen crystal blue waters.

I’ve never lived on my own.

I’ve never have known comfort with a woman.

I would never be a father.

It’s doubt.

It’s knowing that I am the problem, and that there is a solution, temporary or not.

I’ve never performed for a group of strangers.

I’ve never made a movie.

Do I write a note, or not?

Because would say I was good, and I wasn’t, my actions would be cowardly and selfish.

I can still laugh. Does anyone ever really follow through with this if they can still laugh?

Because I know I won’t.

Because I know I won’t.

I won’t.

Fuck. So why dwell on it?

Dwelling is a good word. I’m currently talking myself into this spot. Last night, my head hit the pillow and I started talking to myself.

You are a piece of shit, I said.

Get the fuck over it, I said.

You are a goddamn fucking baby, you are everything you hate, you are awful, I said.

People love you, I said.

Oh shut the fuck up, I now say.

Stop writing and go to bed. You are being. a fucking. baby. Sleep. Now.