Someone told me a few days ago that their birthday was April 20th and that got me thinking about Columbine again. Of course, thinking about Columbine got me started on death and suicide again, so I watched a bunch of videos with shootings ending in suicide, and looking up suicide obituaries. I secretly thought I was moving forward, but I guess I’m not. I tried to look up how to tie a bedsheet noose, but it’s a lot different than an actual noose, judging by the photos online. I wasn’t even feeling suicidal until I started trying to make it, and then it just hit me that I wanted to be dead right there. Obviously I didn’t actually attempt suicide (I couldn’t fashion it into anything resembling a noose, nor was the timing right). But I still can’t understand why. Why am I still alive when life is so pointless. Why I try. Sometimes I think life is looking up, but that doesn’t really matter, since life doesn’t matter. It’s a stupid way to think, probably, but to me it is perfectly logical. So many of my peers have life goals. They have friends, they have hobbies, they do stuff they deem worth their time. I have no friends, no hobbies, and I just honestly do nothing but school work and waste time on the internet. I have no plans. I could probably be a doctor if I wanted to be, my grades are good enough, and finding things to put on a med-school application probably wouldn’t be too hard. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to do anything, because all of it means nothing. (Plus I find the medical field to be disgusting, you help people but only those with enough money to be helped. You turn away those that need you the most, and I cannot do that with any good conscience. No amount of money can erase those feelings.) But everyone I know, even those younger than me, are enjoying their life and making plans and just being themselves. I can’t imagine being myself around others, especially weird randoms who probably don’t deal with suicidal ideation. I like to joke about suicide and cutting, but I have no one to do that with. I don’t want to offend anyone and possibly trigger them, or reveal to people that I think about suicide a lot and occasionally cut myself, but that is how I deal with myself. I’m rambling hard now. Everything I try to say dissolves into a chaotic mess, my message is incoherent and I’m left stuttering. I just wish it would be easier. That people fucking liked me, maybe, and that I was less socially repugnant. I tried and failed, tried and really failed with making one friend, and that put me off of making friends. I reject friends and I reject happiness. The other day I was explaining something to someone, and while mentioning that someone had told me something, I called him my friend. Of course it come out with four “F”s, as I was searching for a better word to describe him, but that seemed that most normal thing to call him. He is just an acquaintance, but I didn’t want to say “an acquaintance of mine told me,” as that is a little too long. I talk too much, too, and about nothing, as evidenced by this post. And I could continue on for about ten thousand more words, but I’m gonna end it here. I just really want to do some suicide soul-searching and figure out my true ideologies behind it, whether or not it would make sense to kill myself or not, taking everything into account. Right now it makes a lot of sense to do it, but I don’t know. Maybe this isn’t my “right” state of mind, maybe there is more to me than suicide and hatefulness.