Not to worry, it won’t be tonight. But it probably will be at some point. Think about it. We’re all going to live 100 years or so. There’s only so many crossword puzzles.

Tonight, I kinda wish that was me: 103 and legitimately sick of it all. But I ain’t, so I’m sitting at my computer when I would rather be stewing in bed or flying off the balcony, because I want to capture the moments before a suicide. Before I go on, some destruction of suspense, a little planning and a smidge of foreshadowing:

• If you’re reading this, I hit publish. Nothing you read ends in a surprise suicide. I’m a human.
• Tonight is not the night. I see bed, I see soberness. I see the girl of my dreams next week. Heaps to live for. If you’re thinking I’ve got hope in similar quantities to what Walt Whitman had chocolate then you’re  on the ball.
• I promise you that I will endeavour to sit down at this very keyboard on my final evening*. I will tell you why, I will tell you why not. I will not be filled with conviction, I’m quite sure of that. My struggle will be a little well-formed poo in a flaming paper bag that I leave for someone else to clean up.

Tonight is not the night for me. Goodnight everyone, and Erica, if you’re reading this, everything is OK.

I’m OK.

 

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*Seriously, who commits suicide in the morning. I’m not an animal.