my friend and i share this stupid Gen Z Dark Humor shit that always leaves the Older People flabbergasted. it's always the i-want-to-kill-myself's and i-want-to-die's that get thrown around our conversations. and of course, i know it's a joke.
but the joke only ever applies to him.
every time he delivers another doom-ish line, something along the lines of this-life-is-not-worth-living-at-all, i would give him the inevitable "same," like any digital native would. what always happens after, however, is, i get—and let's use the internet's misused/overly used therapy word—"triggered" by it.
my mind would echo with his words "i hope i die tomorrow..." over and over again until i'm chanting it to myself. i would respond to a shitty TikTok he'd send with an equally shitty meme that would make the both of us do that infamous exhale sharply through my nose but not really laugh thing.
and after the conversation has gone quiet, i would find myself curled up in my bed, doing that whole staring at the ceiling thing that people who are lonely do at 3:10 a.m., going over, once again, for the billionth time, the steps i would take before i do in fact execute what cannot be undone.
i will first write letters. to my friend, as we have joked, told me i should at least write him 2 whole pages of a letter. so i will do just that. 2 whole pages just for him. then i'd write to my parents, probably 5 for each of them. my siblings, maybe 1 for each. and then i'd write on my sticky notes that i never seem to run out of, and i guess would never run out ever, my passwords, to my phone, my bank, my social media accounts. i will also delete my history, so they could at least remain to know me as i've shown them and not someone with an extremely wild imagination and very much so down bad for a fictional character.
then i will tidy up my room, give it a thorough clean. i will wipe down my book shelves. dust away the cobwebs that appears a month after cleaning it off. i will organize my desk. throw out things i don't need to keep. fold my clothes. change my bedsheets. scrub down my bathroom and make my windows squeaky clean. that way my family wouldn't need to clean it out. or maybe they still will.
i will kiss my dog good night.
and of course, i will not deprive myself the opportunity to die pretty. i will wear this blouse that i needed to buy for a university event and pair it up with the flowy floral skirt that i really loved.
the thing is, what my good friend doesn't know, and i guess, never will, is, i already have a plan. i have it all mapped out in my head. how i would do it, where i would do it, when i would it. and it's such a stupidly funny thing that that phrase "you don't really know what's going on with a person" could apply to me, his self-proclaimed best friend. and as far as the best friend thing goes, we are supposed to tell each other every thing, right? we tell each other how our parents are so annoying because, well, they're parents. we talk about how we can rent an apartment together and live like two best buddies would. except, well, i don't tell him anything. he does all the talking. he tells me every single thing, from his first girlfriend, his first car, his solo trips, annoying meetups, to his insecurities that i don't know how to help him with.
my misery has consumed me in ways i have never thought it would. i always thought i would be able to punch my way out of it, crawl if i had to. i didn't realize that the floor would be slippery and made of thick cement, something i definitely cannot punch or crawl my way out of. my fingers are bleeding and my knees are bruised.
