thoughts...

There's a gun across the hallway. Two, really, but the pistol would be much easier to use. It'd be so fucking easy to grab it, check the chamber, put it to my head - to the temple, too much leeway if you go under the chin or in the mouth - and pull the trigger. It's a 40 caliber, the bullets are damn near the size of my thumb. There's no coming back from that. Big, dime size hole on one side, gaping maw of bone fragment, blood, gray matter and tissue on the other. Or, rather, splattered on the wall on the other side. And for me? Oblivion. Respite from the constant depression, the constant being made to feel less than I am. (or am I, really? I don't know anymore)No more struggling for approval that will never come, no more wishing to feel a part of the family and being disappointed a bit more each time it's proven to me that I'm not. No more fighting. No more confrontation and animosity. Just oblivion.