Cleansing. Shave and a haircut. Seeing my grandma. I don't know what's in store. I don't care. I'm just killing time waiting for the week to come. That's the only thing that matters. Yesterday afternoon I felt a knot on my throat. A noose. Something. Someone choking me. Later that evening I didn't. I took a nap. I took a breath. I called Alberto and headed to buy some munchies. We had one of those long talks we have. I've known him for almost 20 years. He's the closest friend I have. I'm happy he's around. My rock. I owe him a lot. He and his girl celebrate their anniversary tomorrow. My birthday's tomorrow and true to tradition, it will be miserable. Lots of presents people have given me. Right. Anyway I'm numb. No tears worth shedding.

Part of me wants to drown my sorrows in alcohol, part of me wants to end it all, but neither path is worthy nor acceptable. Instead I die daily slowly in the Sylvia Plath sense of the word. Even Sylvia Plath got tired of it and offed herself. I stated here I don't know when that either deppression or diabetes will kill me. Slow death.