BBP: My Guardian Angel
So I was wallowing in extreme despair and depression today on the dirty cement floor of my basement, naked and sweating again, until I decided that I was finally going to end all of this repetitive depressive shit and off myself. After about five or ten more minutes of bitter weeping and pathetic whimpering about how much of a waste my useless life has been, I finally dragged my worthless ass off of the ground and up the stairs to grab my dad's precautionary .44 snubnose pistol, cleverly hidden in his sock drawer, towards the back where his suicidal fuckup of a son would never find it and "make a big fuckin' mess." So yeah, anyway, I have the gun in my mouth, the suicide note on the counter next to me, and then it occurs to me: I've barely posted anything on Big Boy all this week. "Jesus, I don't want to lose writing privileges," I think to myself. So I get up, put my pants back on, destroyed the note, returned the pistol to its "hiding place," came downstairs, and wrote this. Thanks to all of you at BBP--without it, my brains would be all over the bathroom wall by now :)