I started this morning with a defrag. That’s not some weird type of espresso or hangover cure and it’s not some horrible euphemism for whatever bodily processes that may take place in the morning. I literally sat down at a computer, clicked Disk Defragmenter and then shuffled off to work. You know how some people cannot stand a messy room or a sink full of dirty dishes? I cannot stand a slow computer. I sit down at friend’s computers and, without them asking, I tinker with things.

SR 520 Evergreen Point Floating Bridge

On Saturday, I was backing out of a parking spot. So was some lady opposite me. I didn’t notice her until I was part way out and, in hindsight, I just kind of stupidly sat there and wondered if she saw me. When it became obvious that she had not seem me, I should have honked. Instead I tried to make the car go forward but I was not fast enough. She scratched my bumper. She was apologetic and kind of sweet. I was not angry but I don’t know, I was all business. We exchanged phone numbers, I took a quick photo of the damage. Now that the repair estimate has come back for $640, I feel kind of bad for her. It would be easier on my conscience to take money from an asshole and not a sweet Japanese lady.

Last night was dining with Diana. A sushi restaurant in Madison Park where I stupidly thought I had the palate to appreciate expensive stuff like delicate little pieces of foie gras. She spent $20 on dinner, I spent closer to $50. The cheaper stuff was actually really good so next time, I know what to do. Namely, I need to stop being so goddamn pretentious. Besides the price, it was good to catch up with an old friend (Diana is hella old, she’s like FIVE MONTHS older than me but I love her all the same).

It wasn’t quite a double life. It was more like doing chores before my dessert. I studied dutifully and got my straight A’s and then I went back to being dark. The word ’suicide’ became a piece of gum in my head; a constant smacking, slurping and chewing but an idea so old that all meaning and flavour were gone. I was never serious about it but it remained a central theme to my thoughts. How would my family react? How would my school react? How would that girl react? Who would attend my funeral? Would I even get one?

I doubt I could have ever qualify as properly suicidal and it may be peanuts compared to you but it felt like something to me. The aftermath, the chaos, the poetry of disappearing attracted me like it continues to attract vast crowds of teenagers and misfits. Maybe I was angry at world, maybe I was crying for help or maybe all I wanted was fifteen minutes. But the act itself made me squeamish. I knew deep down that I’d never jump, never cut, never step out of line. My acts of rebellion were frustratingly tepid.

Still, the lesson stays with me. Should I ever think about departing this world, a new voice is there. A voice that makes the decision so obvious, it’s like asking if the pope shits in the woods.

Of course I want to live today. I’m not done.

I read somewhere that suicide is really a phase people go through. I think it’s dangerous to say it’s “just” a phase but I’d like to believe it exists in a well-bounded period of time. They say it lasts about ninety days; I didn’t count. It’s funny to think that one day a person wakes up after three months of resenting the life they were given and they decide to live for days, weeks and decades. How do you change your mind about something like that? Do they worry it will just happen again? Does the universe do them a kindness and let them forget the whole thing?

Does ninety days accurately reflect your experience?