12 Weeks, 3 Days: Mexico City/Querétaro Vacation Next Month – Lovely Suicidal Thoughts – Financial Woes

12 Weeks, 3 Days.

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I just bought a ticket to Mexico City from May 22nd to June 4th.

Before and after buying it, I was stressing out over financial concerns. I still fucking bought it.

$150 was the total.

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I need tacos before I continue.

I need to write for profit instead of writing to express my feelings as if my blog was my therapist.

I need to find a therapist.

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Ok. Got tacos. They were ok.

Ok. Went to the mechanic because my “Service Engine Soon” light went on.

It was nothing.

The gas cap is broken. That triggers some pressure thingy in the tank and it makes the light go on. That’s what the mechanic said. And he was right. He unscrewed the cap, screwed back in tighter, and the light went off.

He said I should still buy a new one because it will be happening every few days because of some pressure thingy that is cracked.

Phew.

Easy enough.

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Back to my depression.

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I woke up more suicidal.

I went to bed just after midnight watching “Our Planet” with David Attenborough. Fascinating show. Also very depressing.

It’s Planet Earth with a somber “the earth is dying” message every 10 minutes.

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I woke up at around 3:03 a.m.

Told my mind and body. Just go back to bed. You haven’t slept enough.

They wouldn’t listen.

Ok.

Pee then. Wash your face. Go back to bed.

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Nope.

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Dark thoughts.

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It started with some of the same things from yesterday’s blog. Can’t believe I feel like I lost two friends solely because jealousy got on the way. They don’t even know it. They might. She texted me today as if nothing with no subject or anything. I don’t know what to reply. I don’t want to reply.

He hasn’t said anything.

I believe he reads this. At least sometimes.

It’s okay dude. I told you not to do it and you still did it. It’s okay, dude. What your penis wants is more valuable than my shit emotions.

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But that’s not what kept me up.

She’s not my girlfriend. And I have plenty of best/great friends.

Nah.

It was financial woes.

Financial concerns stress me the fuck out.

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Financial concerns stressed my mom the fuck out.

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My brother called me last night to let me know that the insurance is not going to pay us back for the money we borrowed/spent in the hospital/ambulances/doctors/blood.

The fucking doctor wrote in the several causes of death “alcoholic hepatitis.” The insurance said they don’t cover alcoholic disorders. Fuck that. My mom drank tequila. Yes, a bunch, but not to the alcoholic disorder kind. She wasn’t an alcoholic. She didn’t die because of that. That was not the cause of death.

Fucking doctor.

He gave 0 shits about his patient. And now gives 0 fucks about how to help us with the insurance. The hospital should not allow that doctor to operate there. The hospital wasn’t bad. The nurses were great. The doctor… can’t believe he gave me some sort of trust.

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At least my brother is stronger than I am and he is taking care of this. We need to reclaim the insurance. And lawyer up.

Fucking stupid.

It wasn’t even that much money.

My aunt paid for that insurance for over 10 years. 1 year of all those payments is what we are claiming back.

And of course… fucking insurances do whatever they can to fuck you over.

Humans in a capitalistic system are fucking disgusting.

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Top that with my student loans are bugging me. Oh. And tax season. Fucking forget it.

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And that’s why I’m like… well… I can always kill myself.

It’s a pretty option.

I still don’t understand how most people just don’t kill themselves.

Especially those in the street.

Those that have lost everything. Those that have nothing more to live for…

They just slowly kill themselves with drugs…

Why?

Just overdose already.

The more I think about it… that’s probably my favorite/easiest way to go. Just overdose with something.

Cutting one’s veins… fuck that’s scary as fuck. I could not do that.

Hanging? Self erotic asphyxiation? Die with one last powerful orgasm?

Yeah… I’m not attracted to that either.

Jumping off a building sounds nice. The feeling of flying seconds before a big SPLAT. Probably regretting the decision as you fall down. I still don’t care. You already jumped. But I’m not attracted to that option because it’s too fucking dramatic and someone has a VERY messy cleanup. I don’t want the attention or make someone’s day super shitty. I just want to jump. Fly. Die.

So that’s also not a choice… I am not Placebo.

Running your car in your garage with the doors lock and die from carbon monoxide poisoning. Oh yes. I’ve seen it in the movies/shows plenty. Just pass out. Never wake up. How attractive. Except my car wouldn’t run for that long cuz it’s a shitty car and I don’t have a garage.

Not an option either.

Shotgun to the face?

I don’t own guns. I don’t even like guns. I still wouldn’t do it. It goes back to it being a mess for someone else to clean up. I guess I would do it in the shower so the clean up is easy. My cats will be feeding on my rotting brains going down the drain. And someone will be traumatized when they find my limp bloody body in my apartment with two cats feasting. They don’t give a fuck.

Nope.

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The only real option is poisoning/overdosing. Even then it sounds like a bit of suffering.

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Oh yeah. Lit emoticon response from her to the news that I am flying to Mexico City.

Not sure what to reply to that either.

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Fuck this. I need a beer.

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Oh yeah.

I’m supposed to do some writing for profit. Haven’t done that in a while. And the articles being posted are subpar to mine.

I have a huge ego.

The bigger the ego, the bigger the suicide.

What a strange disease is to be human and alive.

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Ok.

Let’s end this with a positive note.

A sip of beer first.

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Tamara Vallarta is in LA. She told me she was going but never told me when. I could have visited her. Except she barely stayed there a night and now she’s flying back. She’s in LAX right now. My old stomping grounds. We talking about celebrities. Stupid.

I will probably see her in Mexico City. She might pick me up. Who knows.

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Mexico City.

I have 0 plans.

I just decided that I need to get out and I bought a ticket.

That’s what I’ve been wanting to do. Get out.

I wanted to get out with my car… it wasn’t happening.

I wanted to move out… it’s not happening and it doesn’t seem to happen.

I want to just leave town for a while and feel different.

And I’m nervous.

Excited.

I’m flying back home.

Except, I don’t have a home.

I never will have a home again.

I have never been in Querétaro without my parents there. Much less with my mom gone. It’s going to be a strange and shitty feeling. I want to visit my house of old.

Which by the way… I found some pictures of it in the piles of my mom’s stuff.

I still have so many piles of my mom’s stuff.

Stuff.

If I had trouble throwing away my dead grandma’s stuff… imagine how I feel with my mom’s?

I had a broken vacuum cleaner for years that I didn’t feel like throwing away because I grabbed it from my grandma’s house.

I still have a blue cushion that was on the window ledge of my grandma’s house. I use it as the backboard of my bed…

I have a lot of furniture that was my grandpa’s and grandma’s and mom’s.

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Mexico City.

I arrive on May 22nd in the afternoon. I haven’t been back to central Mexico since I moved to Tijuana. That’s 8 years ago. 8 fucking years.

I rarely spend much time in Mexico City. It’s usually just a stepping stone to get to Querétaro to my parents then to Guadalajara with the rest of the family.

Nah. This time I want some time in Mexico City. Some time in Querétaro. And probably won’t have time for Guadalajara.

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Already talking to friends about my trip. It seems like I won’t have to spend a dime in lodging. I have A LOT OF WORK before the flight. So hopefully, I’ll leave with a good $500 to spend on eating and drinking and entertainment. It will probably be less.

And I need someone to take care of my cats/apartment.

Fucking cats.

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I’m talking to a childhood friend/neighbor. He still lives there. And my other neighbor too. Holy fuck it’s going to be a wild stupid emotional ride to see my hometown without my parents around…

The house I grew up was a beautiful place.

I found pictures in the piles of stuff my mom left.

Here are a few of my favorites:

No pictures of the balcony. It was huge and it has glorious views.

These pictures don’t really do justice to the house.

Holy shit did my parents own A LOT OF CRAP. I can’t believe it all dissipated to nothingness.

The house was huge… and expensive.

How many fuck ups can life have?!

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I want to visit that place. I loved that house.

The ideal world my parents’ would still be there. And we would visit twice or three times a year. Christmas. Summer. More.

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Nope.

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Someone else lives there now.

And I have no home.

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