Note To Self —

By the time you read this, I’ll be dead.

For that matter, by the time I finish writing this, I’ll be dead. That’s a tautology; of course I’ll be finished writing when I die. But what I mean is that this isn’t just another phony emotional-laden plea for attention or something I plan on typing and printing so you can ‘accidentally’ find it and get me the help I need. I’m beyond help. Literally. I’ve already taken what I sure as hell hope was a fatal dose of my last couple of prescriptions, though I’m pretty sure I’ll still have enough time to write down what I need to say to you. Don’t worry… I don’t really have a lot to say to you.

In your desperate need to be a martyr, you will write this off as something you said or something you did, and trust me, from where I’m sitting (and especially how I’m feeling) it’s tempting to say it’s all your fault. But it’s not. Doing what I did is no different than, say, a cancer patient succumbing to his tumours. No one stands up at a funeral and says “If I’d just loved him a little more, been there when he needed me, the cancer would never have killed him… it’s all my fault.” Okay… actually, I could imagine you doing just that, but that’s only because the physical stress and counter-gravitational pull the entire solar system inflicts on your head as it orbits around you does tend to make you say silly things. Don’t worry, I understand.

You know what? Maybe if you hadn’t started seeing that other guy, things would have been a little different. Oh, I don’t doubt I would eventually succumb to my disease and do this eventually, but perhaps I would do it without the annoying note. After all, we’ve long since agreed, or at least you agreed and told me that I did as well, that my feelings were thanks to a disease which must be managed and controlled, and not a reaction to anything going on around me. I also know the old joke says that the one thing a gay man brings to a second date is his new boyfriend, but I’m pretty sure you were texting Chad from our first date. Nice picture, by the way. I saw it that night when you got up to go to the bathroom. I did always like that face you made. Can’t say I do any more, of course.

And the job you made me take. Listen:  freelance computer programming is indeed a real job, and it fit well with how I managed my disease. I was making real money. Maybe not as much as you were with your fancy-pants business degree, but I was making enough to hold down my own appartmennt in Midtown, walkingg diustance from the club at Ansley Square where me wet.

Hold on… okay, so what if I’m dying, I need water. No reason to pass on to the next world with a parched throat. Feeling a little fuzzy, by the way. I mean, not right now, now being the time that you’re reading this. I’m not feeling much of anything right now.

But seriously, even though you made me take that proper office job, I still got job offers up the wazoo. Maybe if you’d spent a little more time up my wazoo you would have noticed. There, I just sent you a link to my job offers folder. Look at that, why don’t you? Even six months later, people were sending me requests for patches, web design, and so on. Had I not given up everything I hold dear to stay involved with someone I used to hold dear, I would probably be doing even better than I had been. But no, your boyfriend had to, just had to have a respectable job that took him out of the house on a regular basis.

I might have had the “fatal disease of Bi-Polar Disorder,” something you liked to tell everyone we met before we even got to talk about favourite drinks and movies, but it was never so acute as it was around you. And I really think you knew this.

Alright, I don’t have too much time left, I don’t think. Starting to feel a little woozy and shit, now. I’ve already pointed out the list of jobs I could have taken while staying shiftless and unemployed, in your view. Hell, now that I’m actually reading the damn things and not just shoving them in my Lost Opportunities folder, the second one down says they were willing to fly me to Spain to work for a month. Do unemployed wastrels regularly get offers to work in Spain? Have you?

You’ve ruined me. I want you to know that. I set down to tell you it was my disease and not you that was responsible for this, but that’s quite obviously not true. If a man’s on oxygen and you fart in the tank until he passes out, you can’t blame it on the disease. At least, you can’t blame it on his disease. I have no clue what you have, and I don’t really want to know.

On the other hand, I’m the one who took the pills. I’m the one who took the pills and decided to use my last hour on Earth writing to the one man on Earth who really doesn’t care about me whatsoever. Instead I could have spent that time looking at what I gave up for you. For that matter, now I can’t stop looking at what I gave up for you, what I’m giving up.

Wonder if Spain treats suicidal bi-polar programmers alright.

PS:  Called 911, think I dialed right. Don’t come visit, okay?

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