What am I doing?

Seriously, what is the point of all this? Why am I wasting my damn time on some stupid crap blog... God, the word even sounds so stupid it pisses me off. Okay, wait, let me start again.

There.
Now.

I guess I am doing this... wait, am I going to show this to anybody? Do I really need to explain myself? This sucks.

Okay, I need a hook. All the books I've read on writing tell me I need a hook. Even if it's only for me, I need something to gather interest.

I spent about a half-an-hour of my time this morning with a gun in my mouth. (There. Didn't see that coming, did you?) Well it's the truth. A Sig Sauer P220 45 cal. We got to know each other pretty well. Maybe I will spend tomorrow that way, too. Maybe this blog won't get very many updates. I think the one may be inversely proportional to the other. I think that I might even spend a little more quality time with the Sig before bed. I guess...

I can't do it. I want to, dammit. I want to more than anything. But I couldn't do that to Annaliese. Not just before Christmas. Hell, I can't even do it to Susan. I would love to call her a lousy bitch, to say this is all her fault, to say she earned having to explain to Anna why her Daddy made her a pretty Christmas picture by blowing his head all over the wall. (I made it myself! Hah hah ha- ) Truth is, I can't deceive myself that way. It was my fault. Maybe not all of it, but enough, that's for damn sure. And I can't convince myself that I actually have the courage to off myself. Off myself? What, am I an extra in a lousy gangland movie now? I guess I am a big enough jerk to drive Susan and Anna out of my our house and into the not-so tender mercies of Susan's mother, but not big enough to steal Anna's daddy from her. How bad a person does that mean I am?