I am at my wits end. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to do it either. How long have I been faking life? My entire life. Most consciously doing it for the last 25 years. It ain’t working. When is it a good time to quit? I don’t want to die but I don’t want to live. I don’t want to be burdened with life anymore. I know it is beautiful. I know it is incredible. I just am not feeling it. Today I am not so much depressed than I am angry. I am not angry at anything in particular but just in general. I haven’t written in a week and even that angers me. I know I shouldn’t utilize a human as a my diary but it wasn’t like that in my head. Of course, the reality is is that it was like that and you called me out on it. I am not going to stop writing though, I cant. Forgive me but it’s the only thing that is keeping my sanity. Perhaps I just won’t mail them. I will just pretend that I am still writing to someone who gives a shit. Truth is though, no one gives a damn. I have nobody and nothing to love except my cat, Desmond. I wonder if this will be my last month here on planet Earth. I wonder how long it will take to discover I am missing. That’s just wishful thinking. Truth is, my problems are nothing more or less pressing then the next guys. In fact, I probably would even be better than the next guys which makes me feel guilty. I can’t afford to live on my own. I just can’t. To move back into my mom’s basement is moving backwards. It is saying I can’t do it on my own. I have to depend on others. This is unacceptable. I am thirty five years old. I should have a family of my own. I shouldn’t be working two jobs just to be in the red line. I gotta do something. Something bold. Something rash. So long as I don’t kill myself. Although, trust me, it is so tempting. I am pretty sure this is why people end up in jails or prison. It’s much easier then having to figure it out on your own. I think I would prefer solitary confinement.