I come home from work to all this.... good lord. It makes me think though.

Sentra does have a point. He is right. It is attention whoring. But I need it. I need to feel like I'm not alone in this. Friends are hard to come by for me, and while my family is always there for me, they are my family. So much depends and rides on my actions. Personally, I don't want to show them the sorry state of mind I'm in. Not with this riding on top of me.

So, you can say what you like Sentra. You can call me out on it. Because that's what it is. I need attention. I don't want to feel alone with this. And so I throw my woes out to the void of the internet. It is, one horrible mess after another. So if you want, call me an attention whore.

But know that you're wasting your breath. You can't say anything that would hurt me or make me feel any worse. Because life has bestowed death on me. The greatest of insults. The end of the road. You can't say or do anything that would make me feel any worse than what I sit here, and face right now.

As I sit here, still in my work gear, and I eat my bowl of yogurt, and I take this cocktail of drugs from the doctor, I can feel it. When I breathe. My throat is on fire as air passes through it because it's enflamed. There's a slight pain in my lungs, in my chest. And I keep coughing.

I'm trying to cough up the bile that's beginning to form in my lungs. My body is acting like I'm drowning. And I'm tired. I'm fighting two infections at once. My own self doubt is eating away at me, and I can't help but wonder even if I survive this, where will I go with my life? How could I make it worth living? Worth something.

So yes, I'm an attention whore. But be happy Sentra. In three weeks, most likely less, I will likely be dead. And you won't ever have to hear from me and my troubles again. A voice across the internet, across a screen, will go quiet. A buzz in your ears that annoys you will go dark.

Tell you what chum. If there's an afterlife of any kind, I'll be waiting for you. I'll buy drinks. And we can talk about what embarrassing lives we lead, and what simple little thing toppled it all and killed us.

But you are right in your points, at least. The more folks that give me their best wishes, the worse I feel. I can't sleep at night because this is on my head. At the very best, three weeks.  21 days. In 21 days or less, this is likely the end of the road for me.

So I'm going to stop posting my woes. I got the attention I wanted, and it didn't help.