Gravedigger

This is the way I see it. Last year when I turned twenty I had sixty years left to live. Since then I've been keeping track of everything that I did in the following year to diminish that number. I'm the captain of my own fate, and I am digging my own grave.

One thousand, four hundred and sixty cigarettes, I figured I lost about a day a cigarette. Four years, gone, just like that.

Twenty four times shooting up meth, I figured each of those counted for half a year. We're down to forty-four years all ready.

Five hundred and twenty-one beers, let's call it two days lost for every beer, or almost three years just swept away.

One hundred and one shots of tequila, fifty-seven shots of vodka, seventy-two shots of rum, we'll call it a month for every 5 shots. That's almost four years.

We already only have thirty four years left, we're almost half way there.

Why am I doing this to myself you might ask, because I've wanted to die for longer than I can remember. It's something I've always wanted, I just want the pain to stop. That's why the drugs started in the first place, and I knew that they would be the cause of my downfall.

Heroin sixteen times, that had to be up there with meth, eight years gone.

Sixty three unprotected one night stands, let's call each four months, almost five years.

Then finally crack. Twenty times. I'd say that took away a year a time.

We're down to one year.

With all the shared needles, acid trips, and smoked joints, I'm pretty sure I took care of that year too.

So, here I lay, on my birthday, in an by hourly hotel room, with a hooker, who claims her name is Platinum, "getting ready" in the bathroom, and three times the dose, for a man my size, of heroin coursing through my veins. I was going to over dose, and I was so very ready for it. I had dug my grave with every vice, and now I was ready to lie in it.