We were born for it. We live for it. And one day, we’ll all attain it.
Personally, at this stage I look well forward to death. I’m in no way suicidal, being too fucking cowardly, but the fact is I have nothing else to look forward to.
So, I wait. Death is the phone call on which I wait. Not a woman. Just death.
As I see on Facebook and elsewhere, I see most of you are happy. I’m happy for you. I don’t find happiness anymore; for me, it’s anything but happy. So I segregate myself from people in general.
I find that people are happier if I’m not around them, Point taken.
There are four different illnesses trying to decide which will kill me. I’m sick of the fight. I’m sick of America, which hates me and the feeling’s entirely mutual, trust me. I miss my life in Toronto, which now seems impossibly far away, and above all I miss those I love who I cannot see from this room of skin and bone.
I do not love this life. I wish it had ended when Lisa died. The curse on me was that it didn’t. Now I have to walk around each day in this goddamned suit pretending I’m happy. I’m not.
Personally, I wish my body would finish the fight al-fucking-ready, and let me finally go to be with those I love. Life has absolutely no interest for me anymore. And it never will again.