I was walking home thinking about the huge inconvenience suicide creates for unrelated people, like my landlord. That must just be a huge pain in the ass. Then with my usual obsession with irrelevant details, should-be irrelevant details, I thought about what happens to my stuff, my bank accounts, bills, etc. Crikey, it's all irrelevant. Someone comes and claims the stuff or sells it or carts it away. Yes, please, cart it all away, erase me. Put it all out on the street and give it away for free.
And whoever has to deal with the aftermath (not a body though, I won't leave one of those for someone to clean up) might reflect on the tragedy, the despair, the misery I must have gone through, and . . . I didn't, I don't think.
That kinda made me feel bad, like whoever might reflect on it would be gypped because I wasn't tormented when I dud gone done it. But then this does tie in to what I wrote already, that I don't have any idea what's going on, something is compelling me here, so I'm sure . . . you know what? I don't like writing about this so open and forthrightly. I'm gonna stop. Back to the thin veil.
*sigh* but it is July already, maybe I should make a concerted effort to downward spiral this weblog and put every fucking thing out on the table, confessional style. I think I need to do that since nothing matters anymore.
July 1, 2003; 6:58 P.M. - Peavey Predator, early version when it was a strat copy. Later versions looked different. Excellent guitar, especially at the price I got it for, which I remember as a little over $200, but that can't right for a guitar I was so satisfied with. It must have been a little over $300. Still a great price.
July 1, 2003; 2:12 P.M. - First Tuesday of the month: free day at SFMoma. Important fact for the unemployed.
