I could just end it here. There’s no one invested in the story and certainly no time wasted on its telling. All of the praise is honorary, whenever I happen in front of anyone pretending to care. I’m a decent lay and an even better friend but the upkeep cost is too high. I can barely make it even when I ask for help. Going further down the spiral I find myself in a situation as unbearable as I left. I don’t have anyone checking to see if I’m still here, so why stay?

My instincts were good for a while. I feel like I got somewhere for a second there. Reaching out I come up short, lost footing and I’m right back where I started. Alone, scared, unable to even feed myself. The good part is I’ll lose weight. I might be lightheaded half the time but those size 10s will fit, goddammit. I am hurt and alone. I want to look good at the funeral and yet hope they don’t find the body.  If there was any way to conceptualize death I would have done it by now.  Chances are it’s not everything it’s cracked up to be. Just like everything else.

It has to be someone, right? All the characters walking around, playing their part. My part is typecast. Alone, weak, unable to even support myself. I still say the only reason I’m still here is the sheer will of my cat. I’m not worth anything on my own. Just taking up space from someone that could contribute. A person that fits. Works. Collaborates. Communicates. I’m none of that. I’m stuck in an eternal game of bumper cars, not moving. I’m a pacifist. I don’t fight back. That doesn’t make me a victim. Just another rock in the riverbed. Slowly getting worn down to nothing.

Knowing me is viral. Brief contact will vaccinate you against any future risk. If you meet someone that I know it’s assurance they have patience and a certain radar for bullshit. Most of the people that met via me are now unhappily broken but some of them weathered years before the split. The best part about me is still the people I know. Plants in the same garden because they can all tolerate the soil. I’m giving when asked. No one asks anymore. A sure sign of famine.

If I’m completely honest, I can feel the spot on the side of my head. Left temple, just above the eye socket. It tingles because I can imagine the gun there. I can feel the cold of the barrel turning warm as I sob uncontrollably. I don’t want to do this.  THIS is not what I am looking for. But this is the most real feeling I have. I clutch to that feeling with the need of a child that was never hugged. I’m a joke in any circle. Trope or stereotype, I can’t escape who I am.

Wanting other people is a weakness I can’t afford anymore. If I’ve learned anything living in Seattle it’s the role I’m here to play. One of the many lost souls flooding into this port city. The growth rate is misleading. This is also the Capital of Suicide. A good percentage of us that survive the Freeze end up offing ourselves. It’s probably to appease the Old Gods but none of those rumors are verified. I hope I have the dignity to crawl off and die under the back porch like a decent dog.