Hello,
You're probably wondering what this is all about.
Well, this is my suicide note. Or book, since I like to write.
I am testing myself how long it will take me before I actually build up the courage to leave this life.
I am writing this after locking myself up in our downstairs bathroom for 3 hours, trying to scrub the mold off of my father's brand new Pierre Cardin polo shirt with a toothbrush and a bottle of bleach. Do you know the secret to mold removal in fabric? If you do, please tell my parents, or my sister. At least someone in this household will be able to salvage all the clothing that I have ruined.
Oh, I'm sorry, care for me to enlighten you.
I am 17 years, 11 months and 24 days old. I live in a house in some country you probably have never even heard of. We don't live here. We're not from here. My parents and I are foreigners of this place.
You probably don't care about all those things. No, you SHOULDN'T care about those things. What you do need to know is how on earth did all our laundry get mold on them!
Long story short, my father and I flew back home for a week two weeks ago and I left the laundry basket filled with dirty laundry outside. All the clothes got wet - surprise, surprise. Apparently, it rained heavily all week while we were gone. So yes, it's my fault all our nice clothes are ruined. Yes, it is also my fault that mold grew on them. Yes, it is only right for my mom to be furious with me. No, I am not trying to blame anyone else. I should have known really, but it never even crossed my mind.
Sitting on a stool for three hours, waiting for some grand miracle to happen sure makes people think more about how amazing life is. I'm just kidding, I was plotting my suicide note.
I like words, you know; long words, many words. But on the spur of the moment, all I wanted to do was run upstairs, grab a pen, write a quick goodbye & thank you to my family before jumping out of my window. I also debated whether I should just drink the entire bottle of vinegar and bleach together and let those burn my insides away - very tempting actually. But I couldn't. I said, I'm going to make good use of my ability to turn words into paragraphs and write a long, heart-felt suicide note for the people that knows me.
Is this a teenage tendency? To think the worst of everything after bad things happen? I'm quite sure. It's probably just hormones, right?
I tried cutting, I couldn't do it either. So I settled for sleep, to numb myself a little.
Anyway, the sole purpose of this is for them to read and not to feel bad about me leaving. I want them to hate me. To loathe me. To detest me. I want them not to cry, no. There will be no tears after this.
I want them to simply not care.
