I've been having a really hard time lately. I've been cooped up in my shitty apartment for almost ten weeks now, pretty much completely isolated, and living on delivery pizza since the groceries ran out, which is making me sick. You can only shovel so much garbage into a middle-aged digestive system before it starts to take its toll.
I think I need to see a doctor because I've developed a hideous, bizarre rash that I think may be symptomatic of something more serious, and I may also be showing early signs of diabetes. I don't know how I'm going to get to a clinic, though, because my car's messed up (I doubt it would even start at this point) and I'm too chickenshit to try anything new like public transportation or Uber because I don't understand how they work and they'd require dealing with other people in strange, uncomfortable ways.
At this point, I've become so socio/agoraphobic that I can't even get myself to walk the short distance to the drug store or across the street to the supermarket for food or medicine. I'm living on crap and suffering the consequences while their lights shine in my window all night long, showing me the way to salvation and mocking my inability to follow.
I don't sleep at night anymore—maybe just a couple of hours or so, then I lie awake till dawn ruminating on my situation and contemplating various means of suicide. I feel very strongly that I may have to kill myself in about two weeks. I've come to realize that I don't really want to, as I'm quite curious to see what happens next, especially with the coming Trumpocalypse and all, but I may not have a choice.
I had hoped to stick around long enough to do some proper estate planning, but that may no longer be an option. I guess it won't really matter who gets my stuff when I'm gone, but I did want to throw a few bones in the right directions and not have it all go to the state or my asshole brother. Oh, well.
So that's what I'm feeling at the moment. Sorry for the rant, and thanks for reading if you did.
