i bought a gun

Yes, I bought a gun at the pawn shop across the street.  It's an imported, no-name .38 special six-shot revolver.  Box of hollow-points, too.

I plan to do the deed in the hospital parking lot, just outside the door.  I'll go inside, and show the admitting nurse my driver's license and it's "organ donor" indication.  I'll give her contact information for my mother, and ask her to pass it along to the police.

Then, I'll step outside, kiss my grandmother's picture, pray for my mother's forgiveness, and probably start crying.

The gun...

First, I'll cock the hammer.  The clerk called this "double action" and said it makes for an "easier trigger-pull."  I'll put the barrel in my mouth, and point it back-center and up, slightly.  The round should strike my brain stem, severing the connection between brain and body.  Death should come quickly.

I'm sooo ready for this to be over.  I've just spent a rainy holiday weekend with no gig, little money, nothing to do and no one to hang with.  Life sucks.

goodbye letters

I've written the first of the goodbye letters--the one that I'll send to my mother.

It's short, terse and matter-of-fact.  I've assured her that my "departure" was not her fault.  I've told her that my suffering is over, and I've asked her to be happy for me.

As my suffering ends, hers begins.  But, maybe a bit of hers ends, too.  I'm certain that she's grown tired of hearing her almost fifty-year-old son whine about life.  To be sure, the past five years have been a real downer--crippling gout attacks, buying a van I couldn't afford, bankruptcy, eviction, losing my precious kitty cats, business failure and eviction (again) after a tree fell on my place.  More than once, my mother has seen my number on her caller ID and thought "It's my son with his crisis-du-jour."  I wanted to call and tell her that I was buying a house, that I'd gotten engaged, that she'd be a grandma or that I'd made "partner" (doing some job where one eventually makes "partner".)  Instead, she got  to hear me bitch about the fallout from my stupid life choices.  Who wants to hear that crap, year after year?

She always listens.  She always tries to help.  Bless her.

This time, I just can't be helped.  I hope she understands.

small dick

Small dick.

Nothing else matters.

recurring dream

I had it again, last night.

In the dream, I'm somehow talking with my late maternal grandmother, Miss Olga Jones.
I ask her "Does it hurt to die?"  She replies "Yes, but you only have to do it once."

Not sure what this dream means.  It makes me cry.

self loathing

How do I hate me? Let me count the ways...

big head
big nose
big feet
jutting jaw
crooked teeth
stocky body
odd proportioning
old
fat
broke
homeless
unhealthy 
no "game"
talk too much
no discipline (with money, food, time, exercise)
owe a fortune in student loans
shouldn't have declared bankruptcy
shouldn't have bought that goddamned van
burned out
college degree I don't use
failing business
un-cool last name
un-masculine first name
no close friends
no sex
no social intelligence
really small dick
tired of everything

"go talk to her"

That's what people say when I tell them I'm interested in a woman.  "Dude--just go talk to her!"

If only it were that simple.

Women are lovely creatures--nice to look at.  Talking to them scares the shit out of me.  I've never known what to say, or how to say it.  I come off as a creep, an idiot or an asshole.  Michelle enjoyed reminding me that I have "no game, whatsoever."  Ouch!

Just this morning, I crossed paths with an about-my-age cutie-pie carrying a box into the post office.  Tallish.  Pretty dress.  Pretty feet.  I held the door for her, and she smiled and said "Thank You."  I watched her walk away.  Maybe she's got a husband or a boyfriend, maybe not.  Maybe she's single and "looking," maybe not.  Maybe she'll meet me for coffee.  Maybe, just maybe, she'll wrap her legs around my head and scream "OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod."  Maybe not.  I'll never know, because, I don't have the balls to "go talk to her," or the "game" to do so smoothly.

One gesture, two words and I'm smitten.  This happens all day, every day.   She was just being "nice."  I know that.  What the fuck is wrong with me? 

My inability to talk with women is profoundly depressing.  Its alright, tho.  I have a plan...

will i go to heaven

Is there a heaven?  Will I be allowed entry?  Will I be greeted by someone I loved?  Maybe Olga "Heartsy" Jones, my maternal grandmother?  "Nana" Susie, the godmother who took her own life years ago?  Bob Siler, mechanical genius and fatherly Navy division chief?  Will St. Peter stand at the gate, reviewing my profile and history online? (surely Heaven is computerized by now)  Will he consider all the things that I've done, not just the impulsive, reckless, unkind and just plain stupid?

Will I meet God?  Will he be angry?  Are questions allowed?
 
If there's a heaven, then there's also probably a hell.  I'm not afraid.  It can't be worse that the shit-rut I'm currently in.

I think this through every day.  It still seems like the right choice.

The decision

The decision has been made.

I can't tell anyone but you. I can't share this with family or "friends."  If I tell the VA psychiatrist, she'll have me committed, delaying the inevitable.

long sigh...

Yesterday, I sold all my records for $100.00.  Albums.  12" singles.  45s dating back to my very first high school DJ gig in 1982.  Gone.

The buyer said that his son was fascinated with vinyl.  Enjoy the music, my brother.

Yes, the decision has been made, and I'm kinda relieved.  Some will be shocked, and some not-at-all surprised.  Others will be deeply hurt.  I'm sorry--I can't continue living in this sad, angry, defeated state just to spare them a bit of grief.  I'm miserable.  It's time for me to go.

tears...

The downward spiral

Hello,

I have about six weeks left to live.  No, not terminally ill.  Just terminally depressed.

I've reached middle age.  Always tired.  Health and eyesight are failing.  Body is beginning to fall apart.  Those aren't the real problems, tho.

I'm socially inept.  My social intelligence is close to zero.  The last female I spent time with told me that "I don't socialize well," and that my communication is "primitive."   I'm not anti-social--I just never seem to know the right words or how to speak them in a way that creates trust and friendship, especially when speaking with a woman.  Some guys do this with such ease--I have trouble doing it at all.  I'm a socially retarded member of a highly social species.  This really, really gets me down.


I recite the "Serenity Prayer" every night.  Wisdom, yes.  Serenity...no.  Courage?  Yes, I've been granted the courage to make a change, a BIG change.  Six weeks.

More later.