My set date is this coming 30th, the night after Sunday. Baring any setbacks or interruptions, it is set. I know I'm doing it because I don't really care anymore. There is no more tears, anger, frustration, or even depression. Just a rational insanity.
I've tied the rope and have been testing it every now and then. Even made a miniature one hanging above my bed. All I have to do now is complete my last and only complete work; my final suicide note/manifesto/opus. (I find it ironically humorous that even in death I'm lazy and easily distracted)
Otherwise, the plan is set. Complete the opus - Write all letters and final will - Give Christmas gifts - 3/7 days of pure hedonism - Another 3/7 days of fast and repentance - Get a final hug from my ladyfriend - Go to church on Sunday and ask the pastor for a prayer - Settle everything including scheduled publishing and postings - Set the alarm call for body retrieval - Listen to my suicide playlist, reach Pink Floyd, and leave it playing - Suspension hang at the back of the house.
I may need to change the date if something comes up but one thing is for 100% sure: I'm not surviving 2020. I can't imagine I'm even here now. I was suppose to catch the bus so long ago. Now I'm just a dead man walking in hell. Everything feels like a dream. I'm in Wonderland, Neverland, and the Mad Hatter is telling me to wake up. I can't tell what is real and what is not. There is no place nor future for artist and writers like me. I'm aware that I'm quite the attention whore, those two words meaning nothing to me after being abused with it by my own mind for years. As a player upon the stage, I shall speak my hour and take my leave.