I have been considering taking my own life for some time now, but I never could figure out how to do it exactly. Not being a violent person, I hated the thought of wounding myself. I always kinda hoped I could just get hit by a car, or maybe a tree would fall on me, or catch a disease somehow. I would pray daily that maybe a stray bullet would find me. I would never see it coming. Make it easy. That all changed last Friday. My neighbor, bless his soul, took his life early in the morning. A bullet to the head. This is going to sound petty, I know—but I feel cheated now. I wanted it, not him. Now I don't have the courage to do it, even though I still want it. It wouldn't be fair, two in a row and all that. I can't talk to anyone about this because I don't want to get caught up in the system. Yeah, I'm depressed, but I have lived my life and my future is bleak. So, yeah, I still want to die, but I won't because someone else beat me to it.