First of all, allow me to excuse myself for the disgusting mess you're probably seeing and smelling right now. In my defence, this old, forbidden, tiny room (with its four peeled-off walls, and its half tiled and half dark-water-stained floor) of my new—and presumably last—so-called flat, already looked and smelled like shit when I moved in. My only artistic addition to this junkyard is the smell of my slowly decomposing body and all the pieces of skull and brain matter I splattered along with the litres of blood in various spots—especially all over the piece of wood that I use as a desk, as well as on my rusty Royal Epoch; and of course, on some of the now soaked-in-red recycled paper sheets in which you're probably not so easily reading these lines. But of course, my asking for apologies only makes sense if you find yourself in the already and so poorly described scenario holding my eco-friendly last words.

You know, every time I kill myself, I imagine someone will immediately find my body thanks to the loud as fuck bang coming out of my good old and shiny MP-412 REX. I traded this trusty skull blower for a favour from a forum filled with Russian paedophiles who looked for no ones like me to temporarily store and safeguard a large number of loathful videos and pictures—that not even a 9.07mm bullet gunshot directly to your brains can wipe out. But I'm typewriting this in a dangerous part of the city, so it's also likely that even my few crackhead neighbours will just ignore the gunshot, and days and weeks will pass until someone disgustingly attracted by the fragrance exhaling from my corpse will find this unnecessarily long and pathetic story of my life.

Then there's the possibility that you are a hardworking member of the law investigating this bloodbath, so let me tell you (officer, sir) that you don't have to keep digging for clues because everything is stupidly detailed in here. To make your job easier—yes, this is just a case of suicide, and my name is (or used to be) the one I'm using to sign on my improvised book cover. However, if you research that name, you won't find any legal documents about me nor relatives or friends in this life. I'm actually—so desperately—trying to get back to them.

After having written that short disclaimer, I want to quickly discuss the fact that I hate I've done this I don't know how many times now, and in some way, I always feel the need to apologise for the egotistical way I'm taking my own life. You know, I always wanted to donate my organs. Last time I checked my blood type was O negative, so I suppose many people would've benefited from this—but please don't take it personally, sick and dying readers. There used to be a life where I dreamed of becoming a tree after passing away, thanks to those weird egg-shaped capsules where your body rests inside and underground to directly nourish a sprout—so... dreams don't always come true for everyone, I guess.

The point here is that I don't know who you are, where you are or how this—my never-ending opera prima—ended up with you. I only want to share my story with someone before I go. Lately, writing has been helping me build up my guts.

And... now I'm about to type what I believe are the most significant three consequent words in all these pages, and they're so important they will determine whether you stop or continue with this bullshit. 

I don't even know how humourlessly you’re going to take it but, fuck it, here we go.