Angie

Dear Mom,
I'm suicidal again. I tried to jump my car over the concrete barrier on the freeway today. I wanted to die in twisted metal, but I just busted up a headlight and scraped all the paint off the driver's side of the car. I never made it to the other side. I would have kept trying but I got pulled over. The cop was doughy and stupid. He thought I was drunk, but I passed the breathalyzer so he couldn't arrest me. I was kinda disappointed, someone in jail might have stabbed me. I could have bled to death slowly on the floor of the holding cell. I wouldn't have said a word. I wonder what it would feel like to bleed to death. Probably cold. Creeping cold. Starting with fingers and toes, they chill, then go all pins and needles like when your foot falls asleep, then numb. One by one these feelings creep up limbs towards the body. Then the stomach goes cold, and the face, the scalp under the hair, the throat, the heart, the brain…
I want to use someone. I want someone to be in love with me, but I don't want to be in love. I want someone to beg me to live, try to convince me I have a place on this earth, and I want to ignore him and die anyway. Nobody means the stupid shit they say when they're in love. Especially not men. And it's a man's world.
No one will ever love me. What you need to understand is that's not a cry for help, or bait for soothing compliments, that's a simple fact. No one will ever love me. I don't know what makes me so special. Just lucky, I guess.
I'm gonna go jump off a bridge.
Anyway, my plane gets in at 3:26 tomorrow afternoon, have Dad pick me up. I still need to wrap some presents before the party. I want to use the big scissors.
Happy Birthday,
Angie