I'm writing this under the impression that a few different people in my life will need some kind of explanation. Ever since I can remember I've always needed some kind of reason to live, whether it was coming home to a Game Boy Color or getting to play with Yu-Gi-Oh cards furnished by the man I call my father. If you're the man reading this now, you know well that you're not my biological father, but you know just as well that that little detail hardly matters to me. You'll always be my father before anyone else. Now, on the other hand, if you're my mother reading this, you'll more than likely require just as much explanation. I truly don't know how to convince you that my suicide, very late into my 20's, isn't your fault. But, at the same time, due to my untimely death, I truly don't know how you'll be able to convince yourself that it isn't. Unfortunately, that's the nature of untimely deaths. The only tiny bit of advice I can give you is such that I've received from my own journeys into sociology and philosophy. As difficult as it is to comprehend, suicide is never simply the single, sole choice of an individual. As strange as it is, it's in some ways a choice predestined for those with a certain constellation of mental maladies. I have no other way out. Consider this, if anything, a radical expression of freedom rather than an emotional cop-out from someone incapable of accomplishing anything else. As terrible as it sounds, I don't want to waste your time, and I don't want to waste your mental energy. Therefore, I've elected to attempt to express everything that's led to me to this in less than 500 words and without a bibliography. I don't know what to do about the fact that I feel so crushingly alone. Worse than that, I don't know what to do about the fact that I make myself lonely. I don't think it'd be this way if I didn't push others away, or if I spent more time caring about the trials and triumphs of the people around me. I think, the worst part about killing myself, is that at the end, it only expresses a certain ego-centrism that, during my life, I was never able to do away with. Truthfully, I don't even know how to kill myself. The only option I have is pushing a bullet through my skull, which would hopefully end my life without any pain. But, life itself seems to be nothing but pain, and nothing but an expression of my own earthly desperation. There's nothing speculative about this, and there's no paragraphs in the entire Phenomenology of Spirit than can help me. I was a fucking idiot to believe that philosophy had anything that could help me in my own day to day life. And, worse than that, I was a fucking idiot to believe that political activism could be anything better. In my own dying breath, I wish to express that any kind of political movement unable to grasp the excess and freedom of suicide is unworthy of your attention, whether they call themselves Maoist, or Communist, or Anarchist. But, I'm well past my 500 word limit. Thus, I'm nothing but a rambling idiot. What the fuck are you going to do? Tell me to go to therapy? I have a Ruger in my hand, therefore, thank Christopher Killjoy and Sarah Colbert for this death, broadcast to you live for your own amusement. Fuck everything. Fuck life.