letters make words, words make phrases, phrases make phases.

I have always said, slightly in jest, "If being addicted to sleep aids is wrong, I don't want to be right." However, I am now addicted to them.  I cannot sleep without them, and I pretty much must have them in one way or another.  Sometimes I come home in the afternoon and take them, and then when I wake up, I take them again. Basically, if I have no plans, I take sleeping pills and peace out.  I need to quit, but I don't know how.  I hate sleeping without them, I have really bad dreams.  The kind where you get raped, and have your skin peeled off, or get dissected, imprisoned, starved to death, beaten, and frankly, just die.  It started with saying, these pills will prevent these bad dreams, but now, I'll take them with only one thought before hand, "Did I drink alcohol tonight? I wouldn't want to disappoint anyone if I died tonight."
Half of me is self sustaining, I consider whether or not my choices will kill me.  And I keep making plans and getting involved in things so I am continually committed to something, so I'd feel guilty if I died by accident.  And I perpetuate. But the other half just wants to go away. Somewhere where no one knows me, where no one has a story about me, where no one can laugh or insult me, or reject me, or ask anything of me ever. That is what my nights are. Little vacations. But they're just sleeping pills. 10$ for a month, 30 nights of bliss. Sometimes 36 hours, if I take two in a row.

When I die, I don't really care what happens.  But I think that will be the only time I will be ready to be forgotten.  It's my biggest fear, to be forgotten, probably why I just up an decided to become an artist one day, after I tried to die.  "Oh wait, no one even knows who I am, I better draw pictures." Thus, I'm alive. But the things that hurt me the most are the people that have forgotten me. My ego is that big.  (Actually, psychologically speaking, I think that people recognizing me is probably the only affirmation I accept. Compliments are in one ear out the other.) But when I'm gone, no more of that.  Not a funeral, not a wake, not a cremation, I want to get donated to a laboratory, where I become a specimen. A soulless number. And when the scientists are done, then I'll ascend into the sky and please the world for 24 hours as the full moon. And then I'll die again, and become a little frog.  Not a special one, but one that you might find one day while camping, and cook over a fire. Or a nine year old would take as a fling of a pet. But then I'd become more things that begin with "f." Being "A" was enough for me.

Wouldn't it be funny if I found out I was immortal? How cruel the irony if that were true.