It’s Sunday 24 January 2016

1723 hours.

@Asminderødgade. Suicidal. Of course. Dreading the week coming up. Dreading anything to do with the future. Dreading being alive. I hate myself and the person I am. I never feel in control off myself, or my life. And I feel that the only way I can get control is by slitting my wrists, and let my life fade out with the blood pouring from my arms. Alone. Cowardly. 

Next weekend I am going on a skiing trip with my company in Sweden. Dreading that, too. But it is too late to pull out now. Die die die die,

1827 hours. 

Can I end it tonight? Can I summon the fucking balls to do it tonight? I don’t want to be alive tomorrow. Or next year. Or ever.

1957 hours. 

Fuck everything. I’m still here, despite all my stress, worries, anxieties, fears, indifference, despair, hopelessness. In 113 days I will be forty years old. Fuck that. I have 113 days to either: begin to live life my way, without giving a shit about what my surroundings think (which I fucking hate caring about, but I do), or commit suicide. 113 days to my ultimatum. I’m just gonna get wasted now. Fuck tomorrow. Fuck life. Fuck me.