I'm currently marvelling at the surprising clarity that comes with twelve hours of sleep following a HUGE glass of disproportionate vodka to mango nectar. And you know what else? I'm giving up on him. Again. For the millionth time.

Don't worry about it, though; I'll come back to him. 'Cause I always do, with no rhyme nor reason. (And why the hell would I want rhyme anyway?) Well, I'm not surprised. Some wise man once said that "love and reason keep little company these days"... No, wait; it was an ass.

I can't manage to get my brain or my heart or my hands or my life to work properly. But it's funny I should say that, because honestly? My life's never been better. I'm getting the highest grades I could possibly get, I've got the most amazing friends in the world, and next year, high school is O-V-E-R. I'm young, I'm successful, I'm confident, I'm intelligent; my life is ready to begin, and I'm ready to welcome it with open arms.

So why do I sometimes pause while crossing a bridge - align my toes with the edge, peer over the railing at the cars flashing past below, catch tiny glances into the lives of people I'll never meet, grasp the metal with white knuckles - and imagine what it would be like to jump?

Would there be any grace to my death? Would I plummet into the windshield of an undeserving stranger? Would I turn, would I dive as if into a pool, would I hit the road face-first? What would break first: my skull or my ribcage?

And the question that keeps me awake at night, and the alcohol keeps at bay: what's stopping me?