I have decided to kill myself. It's true. I have thought about it for quite some time now and I am going to do it… finally. I have it all planned out. I know the means of which I am going to perform this cowardly task. I have thought about it thoroughly and to me it seems perilous but necessary.

My suicide will take place one week from today. Today is Friday. Friday was the day I was born so it will also be the day that I die. Why not just do it this Friday (today) you ask? Well that is a great question and I have a legitimate answer but not one that I choose to share because it, frankly, is none of your god damned business.

I give myself a week to live. It was sad at first, the realization of my expiration of life here in this hell. It is not sad anymore though, now it is almost relieving. It feels as though I have been holding my breath for all of these years and finally I can exhale. That is the last thing you do before you die you know… exhale. It has something I have waited for my entire life.

Speaking of my life, I choose to tell you why my life has come to the desperation it has. I will not tell you everything, not because I don't want to but I simply can't. Some of the things that have happened to me my mind has blocked out. I know somewhere deep down that these traumatic scenes have occurred but I cannot manage to sum them up into enough words to depict them properly to you.

When I was a child I was happy. I think I was happy. Most children are happy. Kids are dumb. I lived with my mother at the younger stages of childhood and my mom lived with my dad. The reason I say it this way is because my father has never played a very vital role in my growing up, that is why I wasn't overly traumatized when he passed.

My mother moved us out of the little home I had grown accustomed to and moved us into her car. There we stayed for almost three months. She eventually used her body and charm to get us into a nice gentleman's home. It wasn't until later I realized that she was basically a hooker. At a young age I was naïve enough to trust my mother fully with the decisions she had made about my living conditions. Now I would have known better I think.

I saw him hit her the first time and I wasn't frightened of angry I was just confused. I couldn't comprehend why he would behave that way towards her and I couldn't figure out what she had done to deserve such punishment.

After awhile I had lost interest in the matter and the whole violence thing became of second nature to me. We went from town to town doing the same thing over and over again. No towns really stood out to me because the same thing happened in each one. I would go to school for a month or two or until my mom got tired in said location and then we'd move onto the next town.

By the time I was sixteen I was numbed to the whole charade. We pulled into a small town in Oklahoma City around two in the morning. I thought it was just going to be like any other place I had been to but I found not to be true. I was smoking in the passengers seat with my feet hanging from the window. My mother was driving and applying lipstick. I remember yelling at her to avoid oncoming traffic that she had not been aware of.

We pulled into a dingy motel parking lot and I unloaded my luggage. I didn't have much. Just a vast collection of photos I had taken of my various living conditions over the years. I took pictures of everyone I met but my mother had made me blotch out the faces of everyone. I don't remember why. Maybe it was for security purposes or maybe she was just a bitch… both sound accurate to me.

So I'd sit up for hours and gaze at these blotted out faces, trying my hardest to explore my most distant memories to try to picture what they had looked like. Some I remembered and some I didn't. I remembered almost none of their names.

I had some clothes of course, none that I was significantly proud of… although I did like my ball cap that I had obtained from a friend I had made in Chicago when I was fourteen. I couldn't remember his name.

Oklahoma seemed no different from any other place I had been to thus far but I was wrong. I met a girl. A girl who changed my life. Her name, HER name, I could never forget. Her face would never be blotted out.

She was breathtaking. I met her the very next day when I went with my mother up the gas station to stock up on snacks and liquor, (my mother had informed me that it was going to be a long night, I didn't ask questions, I had learned questions only led to answers, answers that disappointed.)

There I met her. Her nametag said Natalie and she had the smile of an angel. My mother was pumping gas and I was supposed to be grabbing chips but my mind was fixated on this girl. She gaped at me somewhat intoxicatingly and I felt this magnetic pull to her.

I walked up to the counter and held out my hand. I introduced myself and she imitated. She said her name beautifully. I have never heard anyone say 'Natalie' with more fluctuating poise.

The conversation didn't go far for a minute or so but then she boldly asked me if I wanted to come over. I looked out the window of the gas station at my mother who seemed to be arguing with the gas pump and I nodded to the blonde girl and she threw her apron on the floor and we were out the back in seconds.

We ran, hand in hand, to her home, which was vacant given that her parents had been working. We made it to her room where I made love to Natalie. It was beautiful. I remember that day with an overwhelming clarity that I haven't been able to channel since.

The setting sun set her smooth skin ablaze and her eyes appear to be hungry, which they were. I touched her where she needed to be touched and I called her name as she instructed. I was completely submissive to the girl. I would have kissed her lips more if I had known I was never to be allowed to again.

I cannot summon the courage it would take to tell you the reasoning behind my leaving Natalie but I will tell you it was my mother's doing.

I went back to see her, to apologize, to rectify my mother's harsh and manipulative words but it was too late. She was under my mother's spell and she had become another pawn in her cruel conniving game. Her hand was swift across my face and I could see the heartache in her eyes. I tried to explain myself but it was hopeless.

That was when I went off on my own and didn't look back.

I didn't do badly on my own.

I knew how to get the money I needed to survive, my mother had taught me that much. My morals may have been slightly altered living with such a person for such an extended period of time but it worked for me. I would curl my hair in gas station bathrooms and put on high-heeled shoes and stand on street corners until a lonely perverted man would pick me up.

I was good to him and in return he was good to me. I didn't know of any other way to live. My body was all I had to use to get money since I hadn't been in school and I had no real skills to get work.

Being a prostitute was not as glam as I had imagined it to be. It was so much more emotional than I had planned on. I was sixteen. At sixteen you tend to have tunnel vision and I was no exception. I didn't understand anything but my misery, and I let it consume me.

I stopped spending my money on food and I started spending it on dugs. Eventually I stopped getting money at all. I would walk up to a car, get in, get on my knees, and walk out with a few hits of coke. Anything to get me through the night.

I cleaned up a bit to get myself through college. I got a job at a supermarket in Los Angeles and I paid for my tuition. It turns out, the college paid for a lot because I did phenomenal on one of their stupid tests.

Upon graduating I had made a vow to myself that I would no longer use my body to live. I was wrong. A little after I graduated college I got fired form my job… but I met a nice man who said I could be in a movie and he would pay me money for it. I did it. Not unwillingly.

I then met my first husband. I don't remember much from that except that he hit my like all of the men had hit my mother. When he put me in the ER I left him. I eventually met Stanley Walker. HE would never hurt me, he couldn't because I loved him and people who you loved couldn't hurt you… right? Wrong. Stan cheated on me, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

I was a timid thing when Stanley Walker sauntered into my life. He wasn't like the other men in my life so far, he was different. He wasn't interested in having sex with me or showing me off to his friends, he just wanted to talk to me. I wasn't used to talking. I usually cut right to the chase to make the whole situation that less personal. Less personal means less remorseful.

I sat at the bar all night waiting for him to say, "Let's go back to my place," or "I know somewhere where we can be alone," but those words never came. Stanley Walker asked me if I needed a place to sleep because he had a pullout bed on his sofa. He not once throughout the whole evening touched me inappropriately or even appeared to want to.

He did touch me, but only once. He put his arm around my waist as we entered his enormous home and I felt safe with it securing my lower back. Anyways, long story short, we got married. I loved him, I really did. I joke a lot now about only marrying him for the money and only seeing him for his wallet, but it couldn't be farther from the truth. Stanley had been the only man in my life that I had truly trusted fully. What a mistake that was.

I began working for Grace Adler in the fall. I know it was fall because I remember her dreadful wardrobe had been appropriate for that particular season. I remember everything about that day. It was odd. The feeling had felt familiar, like I had felt it once before. That burst of lust and excitement and need.

I had felt it once before. It was the same feeling I had felt with Natalie. That feeling of an instantaneous high, which I had tried to obtain so many times since I had first experienced it. Her scent pulsated through my deadened veins and my heart raced rhythmically. When she shook my hand, butterflies went wild in my diaphragm and I got shivers up my spine.

I knew I loved her.

Time passed, I got old.

I met new faces… all were blotted out in my mind. Grace was clear though, the same way Natalie had been and still is to this day.

I hinted my affection for Grace but she never caught on and never expected her to. Even if she ever HAD caught on, I would never ask her to retaliate; or guilt her into being kind about it. So I lived my life day-by-day, pill-by-pill, and drink-by-drink. I got more tired every day and less and less enthusiastic about living. Life had general had become monotonous and my whole stream of consciousness was polluted with disparaging thoughts.

I suppose you could say that Grace and I had become friends. If by friends you mean we hung out outside of work. I could never call Gracie and me friends though, but I think that it was only for the fact that friendship wasn't what I wanted from her. I wanted her love and knowing that I would never obtain that made it all the more enraging.

Jack McFarland came into my life like everyone else had. Jack was a little different though. Here towards the end I find myself caring more about him than the average guy but he is nothing compared to Grace.

In fact, the distant hope of Grace loving me has been the only thing keeping me around so far. But her love isn't for me, and it never will be. I realized this after my typical night of boozing and schmoozing. It was a sad but long awaited realization. But the foreshadowing of this unavoidable truth did not at all numb me to its harsh realty.

So here I am. With one week to live. Thinking about what I should do with the little time I have left. I am thinking sternly (but barely clearly) about what I am to do with my limited time. It makes me realize how much time people waste on this earth. They waste their time worrying, they waste their time crying, they waste their time dwelling on the past, (myself included.) Don't they know that everyone is dying?

Not one person will live eternally so why waste so much time with meaningless bickering and mindless chatter? Why not do something worthwhile that will impact history. I am laughing to myself right now listening to how hypocritical I am being, but, as my mother had always said, Do as I say, not as I do.

I am giving myself one week to live. I am not sure what is to happen over these next seven days. Maybe something extraordinary will happen. Maybe it will be wrenching. Maybe it will be nothing unusual going on or maybe I will die in the process, I'm not sure. All I know is when next Friday rolls around, I won't have to worry about what will happen the following week because for me… that time won't come.