This has gone on too long. I should’ve been dead long ago. Am I still around so I can make one last revelation and give my piddling little life some meaning? How am I supposed to do that when I can’t even focus? My mind’s been wandering and I’ve been doing shit that I don’t even remember. It’s like being drunk without the joyful feelings, the singing or that feeling of importance. Also I don’t need to pee. This wangs. I just realized there is so much shit that I’m never going to be able to do or finish. Video games I got sick of but meant to complete, books that I got too busy to read, television shows that I was waiting to buy on DVD. I’m never going to graduate college, I’m never going to get married, I’m never going to own a house, I’m never going to see my children, my grand children, my grand-grand children. Dying sucks.
I think I’m going to haunt this place after I die. That’ll be fun for a while. I could play all the practical jokes I wanted, I would never have to leave again and I would get to see new things for free. And maybe I’ll get lucky and chicks will move in here. I love Kirsten, but she’ll have killed me and after that I don’t think I’d have much loyalty in the afterlife. Unless they were ugly, or guys, then I wouldn’t take a peek. I would still be completely faithful. If they are guys then I won’t feel bad about pranking them or scaring off their dates.
The pain only stings a little. This stab wound makes me a lot more amazed at those samurai who killed themselves by self-disemboweling. That would hurt like hell and they would need a lot of determination. Shit, I got one little stab and I’ve been crying like a baby for hours. They had to sit there and make three huge cuts without flinching or making a noise. My death will not go down as the most ignoble, but it’ll be pretty bad in retrospect.
And this is all my fault too. If I had just been a better boyfriend and paid more attention to her feelings then I would still be alive. And all this over a bunch of stupid fucking pictures. How the fuck was I supposed to know? Christ, I’ve got tons of my own shit to worry about and she gives me those and I’m supposed to know? I say balls to that. I turn my head and look towards the door. I don’t know why I didn’t notice before, but they’re still there. It’s about half a dozen Polaroids in a frame. The glass is broken now and one of the photos has slipped out of place. Apparently today was some sort of weird anniversary, first kiss or holding hand or something, and she gave me those. I remember her walking through the door, I was sitting by the counter sharpening my knife, not really doing anything, but it beat working on my assignments. I should have been in class, but I said screw it and skipped it.
She handed them to me and I called them nice. She asked if they looked familiar, they didn’t, so I said they were cool, but what did they mean? That’s when she got pissed. She said that I never showed any emotion. I disagreed because I show emotion to a point, after that it’s unseemly and unmanly. Things got a bit heated after that. I put the knife down and stood up. The arguing never elevated above a loud voice, not quite yelling, but loud enough for the neighbors to hear if they were in. Then the name calling started. I don’t even remember what I called her but it must have been something awful because that’s when she picked up the knife and stabbed me.