You know, even though I don’t plan on doing it anytime soon, I still have my suicide plan looming in the back of my mind- locking myself in the bathroom late at night, swallowing a bottle of vicodin, chasing the pills with big swigs of vanilla vodka, and slitting my arms open with a kitchen knife as I lie in a warm bathtub, feeling the life float out of me.

I wouldn’t leave it at that. I’d leave final voicemails and letters. Last words to loved ones. Maybe give a few a call to hear their laughs once more. Stick a note to the bathroom door reading, “You won’t want to come in. Call 911, it’s a bit of a mess in here. I’m sorry; don’t blame yourself.”

You know, I still have that plan there.

Just in case.