A letter from Dec 11, 2024

Dear FutureMe, i've planned my suicide. i know when i'm going to do it— the sixteenth of december or the eighth of january depending on how things work out— so i don't really know why im spending the time to write this because i really doubt it'll be read. who knows. a month and a half ago—which i thought was two weeks ago until i typed this sentence— i stared at myself in the mirror for five minutes because i didn't recognise myself. i don't know my face. i really don't. sometimes i stand in the kitchen with a knife to my wrists. the other night i did so to my throat. i look like ****. i look awful. ugly. i haven't brushed my hair in a month and it's matted. takes a long time to fix. anyway— that's legitimately the only reason i haven't tried yet. i don't want to be ugly when i die, or, and god forbid, i end up alive and in hospital. i need to be pretty. i need to be. i don't like myself as a person. i'm not good at things. i am annoying. i'm not even nice to be around. i'm not positive or nice or kind. not really. not when it matters. i can't wait to die. i'm genuinely excited for it. sick and twisted. so. really. i don't know. i like the idea of sending my words into the ethernet void. goodnight, sweet dreams