Even though I'm typing this in on a shitty library computer and it keeps making words stick together and otherwise fuck up the formatting I'm still doing it. Even though this is not a story, it still seems to have a start. Maybe that makes sense, because I didn't realize I didn't exist until later. (believe me, I'm more confused about this stuff than you might be.) Anyway, when Ithink about it – meaning, what happen as it relates to where I'm at right now – my thoughts always seem to go to that one evening (even though it wasn't really the evening) when I was hanging out in my room on Skid Row, deciding, for real, for serious, that I was going to kill myself.
Yes, I was going to kill myself, despite the fact I'd always said I'd never kill myself until I'd gone the distance and fucked a woman in her asshole.
I'd truly given up.
The experts say once you've made solid on the decision to end your life, to actually go through with it, to come up with a plan, a timetable, that sort of thing, you feel a calm. There's supposed to be peace connected to the certainty of this decision. Not the case for me. I was anxious before I decided to kill myself, and found myself just as anxious after I decided to kill myself. So much for silver linings, of any kind.
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THE DOG HUNTERS (completed)
General FictionA suicidal homeless weirdo has adventures. He runs into a duo of dog lovers, who spend their days traveling around the city observing and honoring dogs. Wisdom cannot be run away from. He escapes paradise and falls in love with a strange lady who m...
