I’m afraid I can’t go on anymore. This world is too cruel, too sad, and too lonely. Nothing I do affects anyone. I’m tired of being used and I’m tired of being abused and I’m just plain tired.
Every day over 100,000 people ride me like some modern day cartoon brontosaurus on their way to lives full of friends, families, jobs, and emotions. I experience none of that and I feel nothing but the cold, empty vacuum of depression. A 79-year-long void that will seemingly never end.
I’ve been a tool my whole life — an object that is used for the personal gains of people I’ll never know, of friends I’ll never have, of children I’ll never get to raise. No one can ever love a tool. Especially a lame tool like me. I’m not even the color people say I am.
My days have been spent, since my birth, as a surface for which people can stride, run, or drive across — to get to real destinations, like San Francisco or Marin county. People only want to visit me. They never want to stay. Even suicidal people are always eager to leave. Sometimes they jump to escape me, other times they just walk away.
Well, I’ve written this note to say: enough is enough. I’m done. I’ve given up. For me, there will be no more tomorrows. It’s time for me to end this charade — this fool’s errand that I have so gullibly gone on about for far too long.
By the time you read this I will hopefully be dead and gone. Not that it matters. Nothing matters. Except for me to figure out how to kill myself. I don’t think a bridge has ever done that before. Is it even possible? I — I don’t think it is possible. Shit.
I was too focused on the idea of taking my own life that I overlooked how I would actually go through with it. Man, I really didn’t think this through. I’m the worst.
You don’t know how bad I wish Godzilla were real right now.