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sm62704's Journal: Tis the season to commit suicide 2

Journal by sm62704

Don we now our gay apparel
Fa la la, fa la la, la la la,
Troll the ancient yuletide, Carol
Fa la la la la, la la la la

I think I have seasonal affective disorder. I'm starting to think it's universal, that everyone at this latitude has it. Certainly my paternal Grandmother did, but she had very good reason to have the blues this time of year - she outlived two husbands and three sons, and all died between the middle of December and the middle of January.

If strong language offends you stop reading now. I'm in a really shitty mood. Don't worry about me killing myself, I've never had thoughts of suicide except once. That was when they forclosed on my house as I was going through Paxil withdrawal. It was a few years back, and even then it was only a fleeting thought, hastily quashed by knowledge of what it would do to my children and my parents.

I don't think the lack of light only affects mood; I know my body goes to hell this time of year, too. I had a torn retina in my left eye this time last year, and I fear the other eye's retina is due to tear any time now, as there were flashes in that eye last night. I sure as hell hope not, I can't afford any more medical bills.

I ran into an old friend's wife in a bar yesterday. I didn't know she was his wife until we talked for a while and she was bitching about her "goddamned faggot husband". I never new the guy was gay. I hadn't seen him in a while, but apparently he failed at killing himself and left a suicide note confessing the fact that he's been living in a closet. He's in the hospital and she's in a bottle now.

The word "gay" when referring to homosexuals is a horribly sick joke, as half of all "gay" people attempt suicide.

I got out of bed in a really bad mood yesterday. The hooker had kept me up until midnight and I never did get any sex. Somehow the promised cocksucking had turned into "I'll clean your house". I let her crash on the couch without the promised sucking.

She was on her period; getting your dick sucked is a poor substitute for real vaginal sex but it's better than sticking your johnson into a bloody hole. But I didn't even get my dick sucked.

About ten minutes after I'd gone to bed I heard the front door. I got up to see what was going on, and "Julia" was gone. I locked the door, shut out the lights and went back to bed, fully expecting to get awakened by the doorbell. The doorbell went off twenty minutes before the alarm clock did, and there was "Julia" with more lame excuses that I didn't believe a word of - she's been off sucking somebody else's dick for cigarette money, and there's no way in hell she would convince me otherwise.

I was not in a good mood.

Then Amy showed up, surprisingly sober but very tired. Her boyfriend had called the night before looking for her, but I'd not had a clue where she was. She needed to talk, but not to her lover, she needed a friend. And the talk had to be private. And no, I'm not going to recount what she needed to talk about but it wasn't pretty.

She wanted me to take the day off, I said I'd take the afternoon off. I'd snarled at the hooker, who was cleaning my kitchen by then, that I needed a whore not a housekeeper. Amy crashed on the couch and I went to work. "Julia" called about ten saying she had some "business" to attend to, which made my mood even more sour. I need to get laid, God damn it, I really don't give a fucking shit how goddamned filthy my kitchen is. She said she'd be back about four thirty.

I've finally figured out why prostitution is so frowned on. It's not because they have sex with you, it's because of the times they won't. This one was definitely on my shit list.

I was glad she was gone for a while; I wasn't going to get any sex but at least I'd get a chance to help Amy out if I could.

I stopped off at a bar on the way home for a few shots of something to brace me for my georgeous friend's inevitable waterworks; God but a crying woman hurts my soul. There I met my closeted friend's wife, who was drunk and trying to get drunker, as if getting drunk enough would make her spouse not want a dick up his ass.

She's not a bad looking woman, maybe she'll divorce him and... oh fuck, thank's a lot, cockbreath, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, or ass, or wife's ass, or something or other, I don't remember . But now the Romans are going to beat the shit out of Jesus some more and it's all my fault for lusting after a married woman. Fuck!

But you know what? I wish all you assholes would turn gay. Then I'd have all the women to myself instead of not having any of my own at all. Everything I've ever prayed for I've eventually gotten, except one thing - a faithful woman, the one thing I want and need more than anything in the world, have never had and at my age looks like I never will have.

Rather than lifting my spirits, the trip to the bar just reminded me how utterly alone in the world I am. I went home and let Amy cry on my shoulder, and Jesus H. Christ but my problems aren't shit. Holy fuck, be glad I can't tell you what's going on with her or you'ld be depressed and you don't even know her!

After I got her tears settled down I gave her a ride to her car, which she'd left at the north end of town, and followed her to the gas station and bought her some gas. She'd left her car up there afraid of running out of gas and gotten a ride home.

"Julia" showed up and we got into a shouting match about the promised cocksucking. She was mad because I brought it up in front of Amy and I replied that I would keep sex discrete, but no way in hell would I keep quiet about being lied to. It got smoothed over by the end of the evening, but when she left my balls were still full.

Amy's cigarette lighter wasn't, so she left to buy a new one. Half hour later I went to bed; it wouldn't be the first time she went to the store and stayed gone for a week. It's not like she's a wife or lover, but it's still pretty damned thoughtless. She could at least call. But that's Amy, and most likely every other drop dead gorgeous "to die for" woman as well.

The phone woke me up. It was Amy, calling from the hospital. She'd had serious thoughts about killing herself and checked into the psych ward.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

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Tis the season to commit suicide

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  • There are three choices; private, public, and submit to the front page. I chose "public" and lo and behold /. invites me to take a drink from the firehose and there it sits! It wasn't meant to be submitted to the front page; it's just a journal that you're welcome to read.

When in doubt, mumble; when in trouble, delegate; when in charge, ponder. -- James H. Boren

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