Maybe I should just take all the pills they gave me today. It seems a bit too imprecise, though - knowing my luck, I'd just wind up getting a really good week's sleep.

And anyway, I think I prefer the finality of the cut wrist; it's not like you can shove all that blood back in there, after all.

I remember a line in one of those dreadful American teenaged-angst movies (which I saw long after leaving my teens behind), that if you're really serious about slitting your wrists, you do it along the artery, not across it. That always struck me as pretty impossible - how do you trace something so narrow, and cut into it? Up until recently, I didn't even know which blood vessel in my wrist was the artery, never mind being able to trace it anywhere.

I worked out which was which a few months ago, and last night I realised that if you get the light right, you can actually trace it quite easily.

I still think several arteries might be a better bet, unless you actually have a scalpel to work with. And since I'm thinking more in terms of a bread knife, there's bound to be a certain lack of precision.

Christ, I sound like some angst-ridden teenager's diary. I must be a slow starter; my diary was all 'Watched Miami Vice, in love with Don Johnson' and 'Went shopping, bought a top from C&A'. I never really did the 'angst' thing (though I had the sullen, I-hate-the-world thing down OK).

My sister threatened suicide on several occasions, and even tried it once. I told my parents she was in trouble, but they just sent me away. I think they thought she was too much of a mouse to ever try anything like that. Yet another indication of the fucked up nature of my family.

At least for me, today, writing that all out is enough. So no, I'm not going from here to the cutlery drawer. Not right now anyway.

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