A sad confession, but I still think of suicides, which is a pointless task for even a nihilist. A chore, really. Yet here I am awake, without purpose, like limp lettuce in a banquet; useless. No career, few desires. Old /young. Whose to say? I worry. I wish I was immune to the trepidations of a life without merit to society, yet I worry. Don't even know who I'm disappointing even any more. Louis Keys said pondering suicide was like a strip joint; ideas, theories, actions you want to go through, but ultimately you get to enjoy nothing. Just the idea. If it's the thought that counts, I couldn't live with the ******* who'd exploit my death like my life, or the people who actually cared having to go through the pain of wondering why. So this is a sorry *** confession, and a plea. Please, ****** me. For everything I'll never be. ****** me. For all the **** I've done to others. ****** me. For my penchant for spreading misery. ****** me. For my bad skin on my nose, under my eyes. ****** me. For the **** I'll never get sick of repeating. ****** me. For the sake letting some people die with dignity, or in the self interest of respect for the dead as long as the information is present for a ******* second in this vacuum. ****** me. Don't the words just rush out of you too?