I crave death but he longs for my life. Perhaps if I give my body and soul up to him, we might both get what we want?
I am going to die on my twenty-fifth birthday. Don’t cry for me, it’s self-inflicted. I can’t take one more fucking day on this god-awful planet. I made a promise to myself to make it to twenty-five and if nothing improves, I’ll put myself out of my misery. We put dogs and cats down when they are suffering; why am I any different? Six months, and five days left to be precise. That’s roughly 180 days left that I plan to booze, drug, and fuck myself to the grave. I might as well go out with a bang; metaphorically and literally.
I am convinced that she is a siren. She lures men away from my house parties to my balcony and ruins them. They become obsessed with her, totally and utterly infatuated, not that I can blame them. She is elusive, sinful, stunning and simply mine. Though she doesn’t know it yet.
She is wild and reckless, living life like she doesn’t care what’s going to happen tomorrow. I am planned and orchestrated... her boss.
The only thing we truly have in common is that unsatiable need for sin. And I plan to teach her all the wicked things the men she uses can’t: how to enjoy living.