It’s all downhill from here

I’ve been in his house for two days. I watch Ian mope around, fiddling with the television, his computer, fixing food and fixing things around the house. He doesn’t seem to notice me, but I know he can see me. He’s aware of me, trying hard to ignore me since I introduced myself. He seemed like he didn’t believe we had spoken. Like he was trying really hard not to believe in ghosts that could talk to you and hold conversations and generally not go away. Like he was trying really hard to ignore the fact that he was told I was here to help him die.

Last night he turned off the TV and sat in silence for three hours. At the end he scribbled something into a notebook and went to bed. After the light in his bedroom turned off, I sat down and flipped the thing open and read.

“I rewrote the ending of the new novel today. It’s so fucking boring here, and Saturdays are the worst. I wake up at 10 am and sit there until I try to get some work done at 7 PM. Sometimes I try and make a game out of how many hours and days I waste. It’s a fucking joke. So what do I do? I write before I go to bed, a little here, a little there. A large bit of the middle of the thing was written ten minutes at a time before I went to bed. Almost every day I wake up, I look in the mirror, and I think that I just take up space.

Henry and I also discussed importing some bottles of Absinthe. Real stuff. Found a bottle of ‘Cannabis Vodka’. I made a mental note of it, and wondered if it was really Cannabis or if it was just bullshit. Our goal is to sample the famous Hemingway ‘Death In The Afternoon’. 1 jigger of absinthe under champagne until milky white. He suggests ‘drinking four or five slowly.’ I cannot wait to try this.

The concept of alcohol abuse has been prevalent lately. Brianna’s been drinking almost every night (she says,) since she left me. My best friend seems to have developed something of an issue as well. I’m wondering if I’m missing out on something.

Apparently I’m not drinking enough to deal with my problems. There’s a bottle of vodka on the night stand, mostly a decoration left over from a party a while back. It’s staring at me. Somehow, even at room temperature it looks like it just came out of a freezer.

When I was seeing the therapist, she asked me – constantly – if I was drinking. It pissed me off to no end. Somehow, just because I called myself a writer and said I was depressed, I must be a fucking alcoholic.

She asked if I wanted to continue again next week. I said ‘No thanks’. I know what my problem is now. I just need to get my problem to listen to me, and realize her problems started when she decided not to deal with ‘Us’. Instead she drinks and she hides behind friends who just want to fuck her anyway.

I fucking hate this right now.

The dreams of suicide aren’t as vivid anymore, but the words pop in my head at least once a day. ‘I don’t deserve to live.’ I keep hoping a plane will fall out of the sky and slam into my house, sparing everyone in the neighborhood but me.

I’m pretty sure I’m going to die alone. I don’t know how I feel about that, knowing that I’m never going to settle for anyone else. I can’t spare another 4 months, another year, another 5 years of being hurt. There doesn’t seem to be that much time left. Sex is simple biology, and it means nothing, but love is not going out again if I can help it.

Now I understand why people pay for it. Doesn’t have to be a real connection, and it doesn’t matter that it costs $250 for an hour of time, as long as I don’t have to think about how shitty my life is for the moment.

I haven’t talked to Bree in two days. This isn’t getting any better, and I don’t think it ever will.”

This might be a quicker trip than I thought. Pull out the check sheet, we’re going to have another dead writer in just a few days.


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Mike Black is…

A writer, reader, commentator, music lover, art lover, futurist, tech lover, pragmatist, romantic, DepDecoist, and a bastard. Hopefully you enjoy.

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