If I'd known 6 years ago that one day I'd be 31, single, sober, and alone in a corporate bookstore on my day off because I don't want to go home to my empty apartment, I'd have killed myself, and been sensible to have done so.
I just can't seem to do it. I think I just enjoy some things too much. My Hedonism wins out against my impulse toward self destruction. If I didn't exist I couldn't eat Indian food. I couldn't drink Scotch. I couldn't have sex (although its reasonable to wonder if I will ever do that again...).
I would like to create a time machine and go back to that night in late January 1977 when I was conceived. I could just bang on the door of the trailer I grew up in at the right moment, and just blink out of existence. Maybe destroy the universe or something while I'm at it.
Stupid fucking universe.
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