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I like having a nice cup of coffee when I wake, and eat a bit of breakfast. I usually like to have a little bit of a sweet treat, to start my day off with a little bit of a surprise to my tastebuds. When I'm done doing that, I like to sit out on my porch with the Sunday "New York Times", which I read while I smoke a weekly cigar.

Then I have a few panic attacks.

Then I have a few more.

By the end of the evening, I want to die. I feel like as if I have nothing left but the people in my head that I argue with daily. I realize that there is absolutely no light, and I proceed to bed, drunkenly sighing as I climb into my sad, cold sheets, with a lumpy pillow, and cry myself to sleep.

I sleep, and prepare for the next day. It may be worse, but the sheets keep me company.

Help me, Connor.
I . . .   a m . . .   d y i n g . . .