July 02, 2002 | 10:52 PM

So I think I'm understanding what it's like to have a nervous breakdown. It's funny because as I am writing this, there's this completely objective sane part of me that is thinking, "oh-- it would be a good idea to describe exactly what it feels like to lose my shit. What snotty posh metaphors can I cook up to explain this?"

But I'm sitting here and I cannot stop crying and I've basically been crying for hours and hours and there's so many thoughts that are running through my head like my entire life is fucking meaningless and I'm a miserable miserable failure and I brought all of this on myself. And I just really and truly want to die. I hope that something terrible happens to me on Friday like I go into anaplactic shock and I never wake up because I don't derserve to.

Being suicidal and depressed is so trite. And being in enormous psychic pain is bad enough without boring yourself silly. I am a ridiculous amoral mess and I'm fucking dull too. Why couldn't I be one of those witty interesting people who always slit their wrists like Hemingway or Dorothy Parker? No, instead I have to sit here with snot running down my face wailing away like the pathetic weakling I am. I wouldn't mind being boring if I was happy and I didn't do such idiotic things. And I wouldn't even mind being miserable and boring if I actually had any strength of character like Mother Theresa, but I have lost out and am alas dull, small of spirit, and much less happy than a clam.

Someone please piut me into a coma and maybe wake me up in a thousand years when everything is different and I can start all over again.