Date: Thursday, August 5, 2004
Time: 8:55 am – 10:02 am
Status: Chronic, suicidal, physical pain, breathing poison, cough and vomit blood.

[recovering aftermath]

Details
Woke to hazy vision between sleeping and waking—father, first pulled the trigger, then brother questioning the dreadful things I wish not to hear at such early morning while still in bed, dreaming of the dream I long to 'real'-ize but overthrown to the cold floor of real world, which makes life even more hard and a frightening verb to fill a sentence. Life is more than [just] a sentence...

The dream. Dream so vivid as if the journey to death was quite an experience before accomplishment. Seven years of plan after failure after failure after FAILURE brought to a sudden ambient so dim yet so bright breathing the most poisonous gas, and asphyxiating. "This will only last a while," thought speed fast as the usual electrical impulse of natural process so benign. "In seven minutes, it will all end."

Outside anticipation, the ending was another beginning to another life so similar when I wake as breathe poisoned. Last word I heard was "Die!" from a voice which belongs to brother as if death was cheated that traumatized me—I've wanted to do this on my own. Something I am capable of doing by myself.

Everything in my head hurts like it had never hurt before, toxic chemicals from poisonous gas pervaded through my body which depress more and more, and more I wanted to kill myself, again and again until I did not have to live again.

I now had analyzed little that I thought can process regarding reincarnation, but such a concept was between the gray areas—I don't believe in reincarnation in any sense because when I die, I believe, everything ends as I cease to exist.

Terminal sedation would seem quite easy. First step to, is starving to death—less than thirty days. When I do, in the process, I'd like to accomplish the following:

First, clear of all evidence that I had lived, including diary and journals, digital data, voice recordings, videos, photographs, any form of written expressions which do include letters sent and received—and emails.

Second, clean room as symbolism of cleansing and consecration for sterile ending, for mother and sister, who concerns most of my 'disorganized' habit—I will never have to clean again.

Third, say "I love you," and I must not look as if I killed myself. Death of starvation is a natural process, but very difficult. I could die in my sleep. I will not poison myself, nor attempt to drown, hang, or firearm. Aid of sedatives sounds good too. I want to die happy.

Leak the ceiling as above hammers down to break. Sleep furtively neglects time ever since the days I depress for days to end without a tracing shadow in permanent dark. "When I die of _ _ _ _ _ _ _, I want somebody to play Heroic Polonaise in A-flat murderously for me" tears to breathe, escaped, as first respond holds back and keeps alive. Drums and bells come to a halt, annul all that I anticipate. Silently fatal. How one word, so far away draws depict of emotions delaying decisions I thought is rightful? Was it derision? Did I fall again? Am I wrong? Why do I breathe writing still this moment? Deserting the paved saunters to transiting vehicles and damned humans—I allow the chlorined-sodium liquid escape, tainting a figurative quandary as I am.

What do I have to miss?

What do I left behind?

Banning APNIC IP addresses would mean discarding readers whom I care most, for an example, my best friend in New Zealand. In all seriousness, trafficking bandwidth wasted on APNIC IP addressed users are annoying—particularly Australian readers most. Does not it matter anymore that I get along with everyone and let the pissed piss more, let the annoying annoy more.

Everyone seems so blasé as I chalk this heavy Sunday afternoon.

Uncle and aunt from 45 minutes away visited along with their two ratty children which guilts me in to owing them a favor that they put up throughout my childhood years when I invoked a quite weight of vexation as time delays their unnecessary desires. I've grown old, and forgotten what it was like being young.

While Friday and Saturday phases were most lethargic and chronic to depress the comedy of venal circulation, almost do I feel myself a hovering ecstasy when all the more reason to walk out of this existence plausible. The burden on both my shoulders feels as though they can bear no longer.

The morning I feel all responsibility on my body to carry through mind, it hammers the muscles to stress an 'either-or' action from the previous night...the night which burned while it rained heavy blood. Until I partially absorbed discrete logic which chapters my mind as falling leaves on late summer days, lesser motivation circles that made it hard to breathe. Just as when you wake lying all night in cold and your mind works in gyratory as restless machine, processing logical implications, touching the mechanism of Tarot and its indistinct messages. First procession on logic studies was quite slamming; "what sets science and religion apart is logic," and sometimes is rather much less real to compare "what sets human and god apart is satan," as religious-phobics may think, that logic has equivalent value to satanic attributions. I liked where it went and suddenly turns out disgusting when Stephen Hawking's 'A Brief History of Time' fell from the pile of books among the discrete structures, discrete logic, discrete mathematics informative load—quite an unwelcomed spirit to break the 'thoughtful' process.

The 'Death' card somewhat reversed its meaning that 'death' itself meant the 'death' (or the end) of the sickness great-grandmother had had, now that she is unwarded, out of the hospital. What is questioning regards much to whether the card truly reversed, OR had it always meant a reversed meaning? Curious. While "all will be in its right place" on my counter falls un-triumphantly—curious, once more.

What chance do I see myself gamble each passing moment to eliminate my baneful existence? What moment do I find worth memorable to remain in tact from preceding history of the undocumented to prove every voiceless silhouette dancing by the corners inside the senseless conjunctions? The voices have come to a halt, either a mark of permanence or phasing interim. These very four days were pampered with delusional veracity, on-and-off hammered with coalesced blood and anger, and shattered pieces. Have I ever felt more empty than then, it is rather full and quite shot-capacitated. Like the dream of achieved forbidden alchemy until all the CHAO opened which pulsates the sleeping formula, I have yet again underestimated this forbidden art, the unnumbered CHAO, 'self-elimination.'

I very much had forgotten the beauteous days of bus rides. By personal choice, probably my last, I actually 'feel' the transiting moment of crossroads and mortared faceless strangers—quite unusual it is to adopt the cultured innocence from my list of unaccepted behavior, stranger-staring. This angle of observation is even more depressing, imagined. Yet satisfaction merged as I process each tree of thought from suicidal retardation whereby exists this non-dimensional space, paralleled my entry which stands before me. What can be more pleasurable than the very fact, being the cousin of judgmental?

How dare she ask such a horrid plea while I am conditioned this way? You wish not to see my last breath, don't. Two neglected suicide book were never helpful yet I find poetic verses which charms momentarily before I return watering. It is difficult but best forgotten than leaving lovenotes. If.

"Mother, may I last request your attention? Need you not to understand nor listen, but be truthful upon my counter. Were there any coincidences of losses, maybe two, I must realize that you will always remain before me, after me. Never was I the ingénue of your lineage pleasing you all the time, yet none of my attempts are memorable as more to pissing you off in every possible way, which is great to know you're quite typical. Blood for blood, I am an honest sacrificial as receding metaphor as god brutally demanded Abraham's sacrifice. I can no longer see you hurt screaming blood boiling in the black pot of anger. Each time you do, it bathed harrowed mundane ghost on me, and you hammer a broken glass to more pieces before I put it back together while I figure myself to fill every vacuous space inside. That was my heart which pulsates the remaining sanity I withheld from breaking down. Twenty-one seems rather enough, to end such a discord. You may only live a happily-ever-after chord while patching debts, yours and mine, but no more to come, and none of mine to worry of longer. I am not worth it.

"When money seems to matter most, I can only allow the value of my life null. Your world is money. Mine is love, albeit the obstinate time to adjust and accept this factor—which keeps me breathing, which keeps me here awhile, loitering with time, writing, and concerning what is around. I am quite alright but already immaculately tattered inside. Nine years ago was the first call for the best to come so that I can fly. External love which I did not ask for held me from. Thinking about money depresses me more and more that I would tear easily by just initiating its idea. I loathed your hammer as if it’s the only superior thing you possess from the highest order. Because it brings you money, bless you.

"There is nothing to mollify. I am just imbecile and I wish to sleep forever now."

This very hour, it's antagonizing—what cools like San Francisco breeze dramatically rose entirely to blazing hell of a heat wave when here, right this fucking moment I sweat typing. The night which drove everyone crazy was long lost forgotten like yesterday's one-inch column in the newspaper. Psychology AP textbook lies flat on the floor since yesterday. When will anyone learn to 'return' a property to its belonging after its loaned period? Throw it on the floor when it is no longer relevant sounds quite proper, is that true? I swear by the ignorance of this world, as infectious as any dis-ease any human being encountered, is sporadic, right in your face when you pretend to be asleep. How could one not bother pick up that god damn thing? What are we waiting for? Of course, my return to fix everything right in this place so-called 'home.' We can make this brighter, and I don't see it coming without my presence. Not 24 hours to the least.

We began analyzing digital versus analog circuits now. Some pros mentioned, some cons mentioned, calculate its potential energy, design a useful kind of five-way rectifier, then poof, time smacked your ass real hard, finally you land close to an examination date. No bullshit, no room for procrastination. But these loitering minutes can work as that pampering emotion such as this valuable moment to work things around. Then yet would I recall, according to my superfluous ego so hardcore, project the very last resort previously, aced seven examination papers without revising a page. Damn ego, shut the fuck up.

Never place all your eggs in one stinking basket, they say. Last word I remember was "all your eggs seem to be in one basket, you fuck! What were you thinking?" Apparently nothing, while inventing ingenious excuses to appease logic on either or both sides. "Lying to yourself" is my favorite phrase to live off by. When it is comfortable, you don't have to do 'nothing.' That's why the eggs are to hatch in this god damn basket which I think is safe as long as I breathe concerned. Stupid, you say—like, I don't know, huh? So when this server one day decided to crash and fuck on me, you know you have the last laugh. Ef just that. Go free figure. 0=0, zero equals zero yes.

Everyone seems to be consciously aware of their special 'possessions' which already piss me off since something I thought was completely fine and alright pulled out, like it is horrendously messing their life. Person #1: father who used to think 'anything goes' for any matter, is [now] a brand-conscious/status-conscious freak, financially meticulous at the wrong time. Who am I to dictate which is the 'right' time or 'wrong' time that enters one's desire to waste money as if it showers the roof on daily basis? Worse, EVERYTHING must look like 'we aren't poor enough to afford the fancy,' which is disgusting and an attitude I serve living to avoid. He will soon purchase a new car, unnecessarily. Not just any car, a fucking brand new Mercedes Benz. That only means my allowance is halved very soon. Person #2: I can't seriously bother about mother-obsession wearing their family like their accessories, and put them down as pleased. She flaunts like I am the greatest thing in the world to her colleagues while at truth, I am just a piece of dirt. Afraid that I'd fall away from her dreamy fantasy, she pushes and pushes harder and making things hard for me to decide how am I suppose to live my life—not seriously that mundane living I slave the day and the night...but the future, on a serious matter. I can't imagine until graduation, living 'her' dreams to work a $20k-worth of a job as instant as microwave food, and tracing her footsteps, marry young, get kids young, which is very unlike of my utmost desire right now is to 'die young, die beautiful,' it calls every once in a while as sudden triggers when I lost my bases of essential grasp to the roots of the world: the slipping analogy of existentialisms, and fulfilling the logical mind and mess with numbers. I can't, and I know I don't last as long as they thought I would. Person #3: the phasing teenaged sister who drowns her mind in pop stars, celebrities, and sorts of sick idolization. It makes her low, and lose her self-esteem, completely—and it is more than obvious. Her obsessions distanced reality while in her fantasy. Teenage fantasy. Assuming that I lived a dazzling teenage life accompanied with saucy friends and gossips about the hottest boys in school and latest pop music—like, excuse me? Wake up, and get real. Maybe there were some kids in highschool who were like that, truthfully speaking. In a case which is mine life, I don't entertain myself with that kind of scene, thank you?

Alcohol crave grows like an allergy. Chances are I either grow it out and die, or die feeding the crave. For once, it hit some senses that it is acid kind of craving after long term of ascetic living since ceremonial magic probation period begun. I am dead serious.

This is procrastination at its best. STOP.

Last thing I know I'd need is a lawyer. There has been a series of Australian IP address logged from various internet provider services, and what I find most funny was that all IP addresses originate from Victoria, Melbourne, Australia from my server logs. Curious, but I do not yet want to jump in to straight conclusion it may be from the same person. So I currently leave the position where my analogy is that, Victoria, Melbourne, Australia is a place where internet service providers' hubs reside, or that Victoria, Melbourne, Australia has the largest server farm in Australia. This can be investigated, but I'll let not the fun slip off my hands just yet.

These Australian IP addresses come from the following ISPs:
1. TPG Internet (http://www.tpg.com.au/), whose website has compatibly issues with a standard web browser, Mozilla, and looked worse on Safari. I figured, TPG Internet hired a web designer who made the assumption that the world lives on the supreme Microsoft Almighty's web browser, Internet Explorer. Or maybe just the Australians and I could not have been bothered more. The IP address logged was 220.245.12.146 with the hostname 220-245-12-146-vic.tpgi.com.au on July 23, 2004 at 11:01:28 EST using Microsoft Internet Explorer 6, Windows XP with .NET installed, located at Victoria, Melbourne, Australia, of course. This was 52 minutes before the racist anonymous message reached my email, using the same ISP, TPG Internet with different IP address, due to DHCP reasons, my take, is that, either the person is on dial-up internet service, or dynamic IP DSL. There is no way this person uses cable which would make my conclusion so easy. Tricky, I say.

2. iPrimus (http://www.iprimus.com.au/), a Primus Telecommunications (http://www.primustel.com.au/) project providing internet services to Australia. The WHOIS resulted a location at Sydney, Australia as iPrimus' base, until the TRACEROUTE evidently showed the originating IP was Victoria, Melbourne, Australia, routing through the Melbourne University server, which now gives a closer hint whom I may thought where this goes around to:
traceroute to 129.a.002.gee.iprimus.net.au (211.27.78.129): 1-30 hops, 38 byte packets
1 128.250.0.1 (128.250.0.1) [AS7569 - Victoria AARNet] 0.776 ms 0.419 ms 0.344 ms
2 rtr1-3.unimelb.edu.au (128.250.5.210) [AS7569 - Victoria AARNet] 0.932 ms 0.327 ms 0.500 ms
3 vic-gw-gigeth1-100.vrn.edu.au (203.21.131.41) [AS7569 - Victoria AARNet] 2.78 ms 0.748 ms 0.873 ms
4 Vlan239.O3MLC76F05.optus.net.au (61.88.143.89) [AS11919 - BtN Customer] 1.84 ms 2.1 ms 1.33 ms
5 gi12-0-0.mn2.optus.net.au (61.88.178.136) [AS11919 - BtN Customer] 1.89 ms (ttl=249!) 2.39 ms (ttl=249!) 2.20 ms (ttl=249!)
6 202.139.138.98 (202.139.138.98) [AS7474 - Optus Communications] 3.81 ms (ttl=249!) 3.16 ms (ttl=249!) 2.99 ms (ttl=249!)
7 32.so-2-0-0.XR2.MEL1.ALTER.NET (210.80.32.33) [AS4740 - UUNET Technologies, Inc.] 3.18 ms (ttl=248!) 2.87 ms (ttl=248!) 3.45 ms (ttl=248!)
8 312.AT-3-0-0.GW4.MEL1.ALTER.NET (210.80.33.166) [AS4740 - UUNET Technologies, Inc.] 3.88 ms (ttl=247!) 2.86 ms (ttl=247!) 3.48 ms (ttl=247!)
9 primus-mel-gw.aspac.customer.alter.net (203.166.91.122) 3.69 ms 3.98 ms 3.63 ms
10 vl045.sw02.mel.iprimus.net.au (203.134.50.17) [AS9443 - PNAP-LAX] 3.72 ms 3.59 ms 3.11 ms
11 203.134.123.195 (203.134.123.195) [AS9443 - Primus Telecommunications] 4.86 ms 13.9 ms 3.93 ms
12 s1-4.br01.gee.iprimus.net.au (211.27.64.82) [AS9443 - Primus Telecommunications Internet Services Network] 9.92 ms 52.6 ms 36.6 ms
13 fe2-0.br02.gee.iprimus.net.au (211.27.64.98) [AS9443 - Primus Telecommunications Internet Services Network] 25.7 ms 8.26 ms 8.42 ms
14 211.27.64.106 (211.27.64.106) [AS9443 - Primus Telecommunications Internet Services Network] 18.9 ms 7.12 ms 8.71 ms
15 129.a.002.gee.iprimus.net.au (211.27.78.129) [AS9443 - Primus Telecommunications Internet Services Network] 126 ms 126 ms 129 ms
That was the Australian IP logged on July 20, 2003, at 09:31:33 EST, 211.27.78.129 with the hostname, 129.a.002.gee.iprimus.net.au using the similar system as analogy #1.

As interesting as this gets, Internet Explorer users which have been logged are infected with scumware and/or enclosed with extra notes that these logged details are from bots, which deduce the fact that the only IE browser ever came without the scumware and funny notes from Australia is Victoria, Melbourne. Most of my visitors run on Mac, with Mozilla, or Safari, or Omniweb. The routing via Melbourne University may give clues that they're around that particular area, and may be an employee or student at Melbourne University—just a thought, but isn't final. The next obvious thing is that: this person knows Latin, and hates America with passion, and thinks anonymity is a fucking cool way to make insults. And I figure that, when a microphone gets in their hand, they'd stutter and sweat and piss their pants off.

To conclude this case: it hasn't been resolved yet while I am still waiting for TPG Internet and iPrimus to respond with helpful details, and there is no conclusion, until I seek higher authorities. Don't you just love enemies in your closet?

"This is the only disease that I'm familiar with that you can solve by regularly taking long walks and keeping your mouth shut," said Rick Berman, executive director of the Center for Consumer Freedom, a food-industry funded advocacy group.

The food industry is concerned about the Feds fighting obesity!!!!! It's like the tobacco lobby, but, funnier.