I don’t know why I said it. His face was sweet and childlike, minus all the neck tattoos. He looked like trouble. I usually like to be the troublemaker so I was hesitant to meet him, but we seemed to have a lot in common. He’s a tattoo artist and I went to art school. We were both getting sober. Him, for heroin and me, for alcohol and uppers.

We chatted about film photography so I suggested we meet at Echo Park Lake and take photos of each other. He picked me up in a grey Nissan Cube, and I…

“How do I die without killing myself?” is a thought I have pretty regularly. Something painless and effective, because I guess I’m afraid of failure even in death. That question is also what I scrawled manically in my journal before I screamed for my roommates help on Thursday morning with a kitchen knife in my calf and a leather belt around my neck. I knew this method wouldn’t be effective for dying but at least someone would know I’ve been suffering and it’s more serious than I make it seem.

Its fucked up because part of my branding as a…