The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

Goodbye - 11/08/04

Monday, November 8, 2004

I think that this will be the day that I kill myself. 

I'm too much of a coward to eat a shotgun barrel or jump in front of a Metro train or carry out some other brutely physical method. Supposedly a man's way of doing it.

Maybe it makes me a woman, or a mouse, to take a fistful of pills. Or to shut myself in a garage rapidly filling with carbon monoxide. I don't care. I'll go out as I've lived— shamefully.

I’ve been drinking for a while now. Whatever method I decide on, however chickenshit it may be, Millers will help me get there. They’ll help me reach the endgame. 

Bon courage, they say. Make it happen.

Please don't be disappointed when I neglect to rip off my mask in this entry. Don’t expect a "My real name is Carl Fluglefeffer!" moment, because I haven’t got one for you. 

Telling you my name, posting a picture of myself, giving you an e-mail address, a brief bio—it’d all be meaningless, because all of these factoids will soon describe a person who no longer exists anyway.

Nor will I make a desperate attempt to spread a warning throughout the internet: The purples, fear them! I just can’t be bothered anymore. 

I mean, what is the FUCKING point? They are dug in, and they’ve already won. If there's some niggling chance that someone can stop them, it sure as fuck won't be me. 

I'm a destroyer, not a protector. I destroy people who care about me. What does that say about any potential I have to save humankind? 

They will wonder, when I'm dead, whether I went to my grave hating her for what she did, unless I spell it out right now. 

No. 

She'll have to carry the consequences with her forever, but I don't hate her. Not because I'm magnanimous, but because the party worthy of hatred here is me. For being too stupid to make the necessary connections in time. Just as I failed Gwen. I trust when I shouldn’t trust, and when I should trust, I close the gates.

And so I'll take myself out of the picture, before I lead anyone else to their death. Directly or indirectly.

I'm sorry for anyone who ever believed in me. Sorry for being such a waste of sperm and egg, Mom and Dad— I know it's too late for you to try again, but there's always adoption. Sorry that you ever met me, Rence— in retrospect that was the worst day of your life. Sorry to any friends I have left. 

I hope that someone else can prove worthy of saving the world. That is, if you all can reach a consensus that the world isn't a total waste. 

Before this gets any sappier, I'd better go find some methadone or an idling car with no ventilation.

Genuinely yours,
Mark Alexander Huntley
A fraud to the end.

posted by Mark Huntley @ 11:33 AM

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