So I headed off to the isles.  I got very drunk. I sat on a deserted beach and stared out to sea. I even saw a house I liked.

On my last evening there I’d decided just to go back to the place that used to be home and sell up.  But then the guilt kicked in. Followed by the cowardice.  Thing is, every-time in the past I thought I’d hit rock bottom, a whole new level of rock bottom opened up.  So although I’m desperate to end things I keep thinking what if I fuck that up like everything else.

Yes I’m utterly miserable and achingly alone but add in a proper disability to that or just enough brain damage so that I still know I’ve fucked it up. If there was a guaranteed 100% definite way to do things I’d be there like a shot. Today.

And then I thought why buy another house if you’re only moving somewhere to end it? Seems a bit daft. So it looks like Plan A is back on.  I’d always aimed for October 2020 as the end of days.  Only because I want to get my hands on my pension lump sum that matures then so I can give it away instead of those bastards adding it to their bonus fund.

So I’ll still sell the house. But I’ll look for that final sea view in a rental. And makes sure the blade is very sharp.

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