This is no longer a cry for help. It's a notation of the decline.

[queensarcaste]

One of these days Mom won't find me in time. They won't be able to reestablish a sinus rhythm. Charcoal lavage will be insufficient, the horrible black stains around my mouth will be nothing more than the most appropriate make-up of death. The stomach pump will come too late. The Narcan won't wake me from that illusory slumber. This is all my doing... I had the power to prevent it-- years ago. But I was lazy, and I was afraid. Fear is your enemy.

I'm not writing this down for you; I'm not writing it for me, either. I'm already thinking it. I'm writing this down for... not posterity, but... for maybe someone who DOES know what to say about it.

Day late. Dollar short.