I don't understand why I'm still here. Why I'm still alive.
Yet, here I am.
Alive.
And dear God, I hope I wouldn't be anymore.
I never asked to be here. I never asked to be born, but here I am. In bed. Waiting for death to come and take me. I already finished church hours ago (it's midnight rn btw), and I pray to God that I'd die soon. I think back to when this all started, back to my "Oh-so amazing childhood" that showed me what reality was really like. Guess I always knew too much, eh?

But, enough talking (or writing) about that. This journal exists for a reason (unlike me), so if you're reading this, you're either found this by mistake or I'm dead (hopefully it's the second thing 'cause I do NOT want to go to a doctor).
This is my Suicide Journal™, it's recording all 65 days leading up to my suicide, yayy.

Honestly, I'm not gonna miss being alive, but I'm gonna miss the people who were in my life.

Like my parents, my friends Ernest Vega, Carminseta Sella, Daisy Harding, Chris Christiansen, Christian Christiansen, Christie Christiansen, and Hazel and Briar Cahn, my crush, Lucien Bloodmarch, my best friend/sister figure (Amanda Ann), and my parents' friends, who I consider as a part of my family; Damien Bloodmarch, Joseph and Mary Christiansen, Craig Cahn, Brian Harding, Robert Small, Hugo Vega, Mat Sella, and MC Ann.

You're probably mad at me. I can't blame you for that. Hell, I don't even blame you if you hate me (I already hate myself, so what's the difference?). I mean, suicide isn't something that you can simply get over easily, but in all honesty, I don't believe that my death will be all that life changing. You'll forget about me in a year or so, a decade at most. I'm just another match in the box that burnt out. Yet another wasted life. So yeah, go on and talk about whatever they call my death. I'm at the point where I just don't give a shit anymore.

So welcome.

Welcome to the Suicide Journal: 65 days until I die.