Some utter bitch from work wrote some non-descript shit on Facebook in one of those disgustingly obnoxious “without mentioning any names” posts which was some obviously about me that it made me puke out all of my guts right then and there upon reading it. Vile cunt you are. That one post on Facebook made me feel two things; 1. Like I was 17 again, cripplingly shy and terrified of what people think of me. 2. Like dying. Soon (within minutes), the second option seemed so obvious and soft in my head compared to every other thought. As I went over to the cutlery for a bottle opener for my cider, it floated into my head “ok why not kill myself, then this will be over”. And that thought was so plain and simple and lovely, such a relief. It was like that Albert Camus quote, something like; “should I kill myself or pour a cup of coffee?” I then hasted to the bathroom cabinet where I found it previously thrust open and my supply of painkillers opened, I guessed that Sophia had got to it all before me.  So I went through anything else I could find and found a few Feminax, some ibuprofen, beta-blockers, and sertraline. I took most of them. And funnily enough I think I left enough anti-depressants as if to leave me enough until I saw my g.p again. Did that mean I wasn’t serious about ending my life? And really I shouldn’t be questioning myself, I should now. But what I’ve taken is starting to mix with the small bottle of cider I’ve had. I then remember that I have some strawberry vodka left from grand canaria. I end up watching twin peaks on YouTube.