endgame.

I am so,  so ready to not-be.

To be done.

To cash in my chips and lose and be aloud to leave.

A river runs through this university town, a great roiling mess of a wide, wide river.  Students drown themselves in it every few semesters. I keep thinking of how easy it would be to go out Woolf-style, rocks in the pockets of my much-loved navy blue peacoat, weeds and water and diseased fish pulling at my hair. I really think I’m going to do it. I’m sitting here in my bedroom, imagining the walk to the river, knowing I won’t do it.

I just want to die.  I want it so, so badly. I’m ready to be done.  Drunk, dizzy with nicotine – I’m ready to be finished.