cellini's Diaryland Diary

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KILL ME KILL ME KILL ME

Whatever else I've fucked up, I am a really good father.

My kids are smart, capable people. I've taught them how to cook. They can make a roux, cook a steak or roast, make hollindaise sauce, make a ragout, roast a chicken, or dress a salad. They can shoot straight, butcher a deer, tip a bartender, chat up the curator at an art opening and talk to strangers.

I did a good job there.

I wanted more kids so much. I love babies. I miss snuggling toddlers. I really miss having a four year old to play with.

Man, I really wanted more kids.

I am going to have to write a very carefully worded suicide note to explain why I'm leaving. It isn't that I want to leave my kids -- it's that I don't have a real way to stay with them. Two weeks from now I won't be able to put gas in my car to pick them up from school.

I don't want to walk away from life. I have so much shit that I want to do but there's no way to keep doing it.

There is not a place for me in the world anymore. I spend all this time reading old newspapers and discovering these amazing things -- like my research into the H0boken Turtl3 Club or the Orig1nal H0unds Guards -- that should be big articles that are widely read and talked about. But I have no place to put them anymore.

I don't matter anymore. Who I am, what I do, what I know, doesn't matter any more. If there is anyone who has any use for me, I don't know about them and they don't know about me. I have applied for over a hundred jobs in the last few months and haven't gotten a single interview request.

FUCKING KILL ME. I WANT TO DIE. I DON'T WANT TO BE ALIVE ANY MORE.

3:34 a.m. - 2019-12-14

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