So as those of you who checked out the Site Talk block on Scary-Crayon's main page already know, I turned twenty-three today. Rah. Not a lot happened. I went to work, came back here and messed around with graphics for SC's layout update for a few hours (alas, it looks like I may end up scrapping most of the work I did tonight and go a different route instead). Soon I'll go to bed, since I'd like to get more than the three hours of sleep I got last night. I didn't do anything fun, I didn't hang out with any friends (because I don't have any), and I certainly didn't get anything noteworthy as far as presents go (presents? from where would they come?) because nobody really gives a shit about me or my birthday. Yep.
A little over a year ago, in the final days of August 2003, I was seriously planning to kill myself. I had the method down, I had the tools I needed, I had the date. I was totally going to do it. I didn't. After not doing it on that date (but still being resolved to do it sometime in the future), an e-mail correspondent who no longer communicates with me (note about suicides -- people who used to speak to you before your attempt or plan to kill yourself will continue to speak to you just until they think that you're out of harm's way, after which they'll shun you like the fucking freak you are) told me to, at the very least, wait a year -- most likely things would be different by then and I'd look back and be thankful that I didn't kill myself on that late August night. I think about that sometimes, and I can't say that I'm glad I didn't do it at all. Things are different, sure -- they are worse, and they show no signs of improving. Then, I was unemployed, dejected, and spent my free time writing and reading, which at least afforded me some enjoyment. Now, I spend the majority of my time working -- either at a job I view as punishment or at a job that now, given the accumulated lack of sleep, I sort of float through with a dull headache and a vacant stare, like a zombie trained to use a computer mouse and make copies. Tomorrow will be my twelfth straight day of work, with hours from 8 AM to 4 PM and then from 6 PM to 11:30 PM. And for what? It's not like I make enough to actually be able to do anything with my earnings. I'm exhausted.
In the next year, I'd like to see life improve. I'd like to move somewhere that is not here -- maybe to New York, or San Francisco, or even Vancouver or London; I'd like to finally sell a fucking short story; I'd like to see Scary-Crayon getting some attention and/or acclaim (fat chance; with me working so much I barely have the time or mental capacity to update it, let alone with anything substantial); I'd like to get a job that I actually enjoy doing and that at the same time leaves me with enough free time to pursue some other interests. I'd like to make a few friends, and I'd like to go out drinking with them. I'd like to have a good time. I'd like to laugh. By the time my twenty-fourth birthday rolls around, I'd like to be able to say that I'm glad I didn't drop the plugged-in extension cord into the ankle-high bathwater while I stood wet and shivering, with my eyes closed, waiting for what comes next. I highly doubt that will be the case. From where I stand, all I see are at least twenty-three more days of work without respite.
Happy birthday to me.