I decided the other day that it’s not that I love my life, and that my mom was right – I’m just a coward for wanting to die. I got excited when corona popped up, and every new strain or word of poosible war (that’s new, but not surprising) gets me hopeful instead of scared. I almost got hit by a car the day before yesterday when I was getting the mail. Haven’t told anybody about that, so now you know something about me that nobody else does, I guess? I wasn’t scared; I was embarrased for almost getting hit. I guess that solidifies that I’m not feeling this way for some attention, even if I’m the only one who knows that I feel this way. I’ve been telling myself for the last few months that I won’t do anything to hurt myself, because I could never do that anyway, but I won’t go out of my way to stop anything from happening. I wear my mask on the rare occassion that I do go out, but I’m don’t think I’ll interfere if I’m put in danger. I don’t want to see the future. I don’t want to go out into a world that rejects me. I want to be gone and be forgotten. Yeah.