I've thought about killing myself maybe twice, before. And not in the woe is me sort of way, more in a curious George goes to New York kind of way. It tickles me a little, the frustrations of life and just giving it all up. I wonder if I would cock the trigger and pull or just take a bottle of pills? I wonder what I'd tell my parents in the letter? I wonder what time the clock would read when my heart took its last beat, 4:05 p.m. on a Tuesday maybe? I wonder if anyone would care?

My mother would care. She'd cry so loud the world would mourn with her. My father, he'd care, but he'd care quietly. He'd whimper like a puppy, but only in the confines of his 2000 GS so the engine could drown out his sigh of 1922 and Christmas past, with no father and bloody noses, who only drip DNA on white lilies. That typical strong case with to much scribble on the outside when the dark is to much like a lost tooth.

I wish I could be more like my father, even when I hate him so much. His flight endures so much lift it's a historical wonder he can manage the weight. So, after the tissues of tears longing for me are thrown away weight will be less and his flight will be stronger. Then a couple of years may go by before someone asks him how he is taking the loss, and he'll give the man a jubilant slap on the back and tell him, "Well it's one less mouth to feed, right, and she did eat like a horse, like her mother, but don't get me started on her mother, so how 'bout them Dodger's, Bob"" Oh and I've decided, I would definitely take the pills, who wants to clean up a bloody mess, anyway, plus I hate guns.

Even more I hate living at home, nobody understands me. 6 people not including 2 dogs and a nanny, and my youngest brother, Jared, is the only one who comes close and I hate him too right now. I guess if maybe in a past life I'd been a 12 year old boy he'd appear somewhere in the ultra violet part of the spectrum. He'd care, though, if I died, I know he would, but I don't know him well enough to know how he'd cry.

Jesus I am throwing myself a pity party and everyone's invited. I'm like that girl from that movie, you know the girl who pretends to have problems so people will feel sorry for her. When in reality she is a daddy's girl, with the perfect looking family, and a perfect face with the perfect body, carrying perfect money, and holding hands with the perfect boyfriend. Maybe she needs to walk her perfectly overtoned buns through a therapist's office, something incriminating with juices just waiting to spill onto the homosexuals who just adore my souffle, only I have never made a souffle, only toast and that doesn't count.

My mother can cook, though, and she does every night, a fragile porcelain beauty with Pillsbury cheeks and a heart full enough to fill the crammed confinements of this fucked up foundation. Different souls sharing a house, with extraordinary secrets, and obvious addictions. It is all so numbing, but my mother could never survive my suicide. She would lock herself in her room, psychotically painting the walls some God awful color, sipping a bottle of chardenay that would soon find its end, promptly proceeding hers. For that, for her, for my undeniable fear of God, and for my sick curiosity for tomorrow's whims I'll keep the carefully counted 32 capsules of Tylenol in their bottle.