Pic Steve Bliss
I’m going to kill myself. The method: sleeping pills. It’s lame, I know. I wish I had the balls to kill myself in a way that was more epic or flashy or hip, like slitting my wrists whilst watching Clueless or jumping naked off the roof of my squat, but I’m just too much of a loser to go through with it. Yup, my death will be an anticlimactic death to end my anticlimactic life, and everyone will just keep on eating and sleeping and jerking-off and dying their hair and doing ketamine and I’ll be dead and no on will give a shit. Despair.
I spent Saturday afternoon clearing out all my possessions from my now ex-boyfriend Blaine’s apartment. The whole process was super depressing. The worst was when I mistook his having pity on me for us having a “moment,” at which point I lent into to kiss him, only to have him pull away in disgust. So embarrassing. I then made a similar attempt about an hour later but was greeted with the same reaction. Eventually I gave up all hope of maintaining any dignity and just started begging him to have sex with me. No avail. I think at one point I actually said, “Please, you won’t have to do anything. You can just lie there while I masturbate.” What was I thinking? My life is one of rejection and shame.
After being repeatedly shunned and humiliated I wandered over to Lidl where I spent ten minutes crying on my own in the frozen food section. Then I stole a giant block of Brie which I ate with my hands on the bus ride home.
When I arrived at my house all I wanted was to take a shower, but obviously our new squat doesn’t have one so I had to take a cold bath out of a bucket. Next I ate some out-of-date tuna salad that my flatmates and I fished out of the garbage bins behind Marks and Spencers. I couldn’t wash a fork because there was a huge slug on the sponge so I used my hands to eat that as well.
That night I went out in east London. I took some ecstasy to try and make myself feel better but just ended up getting so fucked that I gave a random guy I met on the street a blow-job behind a dumpster. I think his name was Paul. Or Patrick. Whatevs.
Now I’m in my room on a comedown trying to decide what song I want played at my funeral. Bunny is lying next to me. He’s depressed too. He’s always depressed—at least that’s what he says anyway. He’s thinking about the cast of Friends. He didn’t tell me this, but I can just tell. He’s always thinking about Friends. It’s sort of creepy actually.
“Are you thinking about Ross?” I ask.
“Oh my God, for the millionth time I’m not thinking about Ross,” he says. I don’t believe him.
“Then what are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking about how I want to wear my white jeans out tonight, but they have a giant piss stain on them and I don’t have enough money to go to the laundromat…” This is the beginning of the end.