Today is Thanksgiving in America. And the final day of my failed life.
In America we celebrate Thanksgiving on the last Thursday of November, just as nature's cycle transitions from dying to dead. It is also a time to celebrate the love and company of family and friends. Unless you are but a ghost to others and have no friends, or family who acknowledge your existence.
It is, therefore, apropos that my life end this day. My sins are many; my good deeds few and unnoticed. I am nothing to those I want; I care not about those who seek my attention. I forsook all that I once cherished for the vain, superficial pursuits of the material world. I gained the riches of man but lost my children, the only woman I ever loved, and I lost my soul. Now I am alone. Alone in a grand mansion that is so cold, dark and soulless it may as well be a cave in the depths of the earth. The water in my pool is brown and thick with years of accumulated debris. My windows are coated with a dull haze of grime. My kitchen contains little food, but large quantities of vodka.
My phone is silent from the deafening sounds of calls I never made and calls I never returned.
I am weary. I cannot bear the pain of my failures, my addictions, my cruelties, any longer. I need rest. Rest from this life.
Happy Thanksgiving. For the last time.
Goodbye.
