The Life of Don

Part One

As I sit in a truck at the end of the world, I contemplate putting my Rock Island 1911 .45 in my mouth and pulling the trigger.

It feels like the only reprieve I have left.

The only one left that gets rid of all of this. The memories, the self-loathing, and most of all, the feelings of inadequacy. I’ve hurt a lot of people, got a war criminal arrested, and am ashamed to admit that I helped enable a child abuser.

I sit here, in the middle of the desert and I ponder my course of action. I am afraid to come out to my friends and tell them many of these things, citing that they may laugh at my struggles as I have. I know I shouldn’t vent amongst you, especially not during times like these. Much of my writing draws from personal experience. Love, loss, and hoping my next move isn’t the one that financially cripples me.

Despite what many would like to believe, I don’t think I’m a good person, given good can only come from good and not the other way around. No matter how I write it, I found myself in a bad crowd when I moved out of California to Arizona.

I have been doing my best to redeem myself and my actions, to do right as I said to myself when I moved from California to Arizona.

I’m Don, the tripfag. Welcome to the confused mess that is my life.