This post is long overdue.

Last week, I attempted suicide.

A very lame attempt actually.

I took 260 times of my usual dosage.

I knew I wasn't going to die.

Hardly anyone dies through legal drugs overdose - something I learnt through my pharmacist friend and also through the experiences of my previous acquaintances from the ward.

But I wanted to self-harm.

Also, I was hoping to be lucky ? Perhaps slip into a long sleep?
Jumping off the building would be too gory.
Too much mess, and I thought how traumatic it would be for others to see.
Hanging? Oh, the poor person who'd discover the body.

I remember looking at my stuff, just before I passed out.

I thought, gosh.... there's so much stuff for my friend or housemate to clear out.

There was however, ONE thing that made me felt a strong sense of waste.

I thought, "Shucks, pity I never gotten around to write about that fiction. "