I used to think that if I could start over, I would. That no one should live through this. I'm not even talking about myself anymore, I'm talking about everyone who has ever gotten close to me. They have all thrown away their lives because I have ruined them.
It seems fitting that it should be now, when I'm staring into the face of Death himself, that I finally accept it all.
There is only so much blame one person can pressure onto themselves, and I've clearly used all mine up.
It is now when I am wondering, will anyone miss me? The blame is not as important as me, my being, right?
Surely, as I slowly slip away, there shall be at least one person mourning.
Would my mother, after all I've done to her? Would my father, after I ruined his marriage?
I was supposed to live longer, and freely. I was supposed to stay quiet until I met Mr. Right. Instead, I met a few different Mr.'s and couldn't wait for that one special one.
Is he still out there? Do I know him? If so, will he mourn me? Or will he, along with everyone else in this god-foresaken predicament, blame me.
If so, I take full responsibility.
I know I've made some poor choices, and a lot more horrid ones.
But in the end, just before I pass away, I begin to ponder.
Does any of it matter? Do our choices mean anything? Are we not just a bored species looking for entertainment in the tiniest slither of gossip and drama? Or is there someone watching? Someone claculating the value of our lives. Someone deciding how good or bad we are.
All I know for sure, is that the past year has been the best year of my fucking life.
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