I don't even bother to do much anymore; all I do is wake up, walk the half mile to a coffee shop, and then another half to the bridge. Coffee is the only carnal pleasure I enjoy anymore. A last great bastion, in a pit of despair. Not because it brought me joy but because not having it caused me to feel worse. But those have been my days recently. I know it's just the time to get to the bridge.
Everyone walks the same beat every day. It's easy to tell when you could go ahead and do it when no one would try to stop you; hopefully, no one even sees you. There is always one good time to jump; that's not the hard part. The hard part is picking where.
I always head to the third lamppost. On the first post, when you land, your legs shatter, and you would be dragged downstream. The paramedics would eventually grab you, and you'd be fine, if only physically.
Now, that second post, this one, oh, this one hurts. You got out the worst way: drowning. You hit the water, BOOM, your arm snapped, and you can't move your legs either; you just flow down the river with your head occasionally bobbing up, and you drown for a solid seven minutes.
This third post, the glorious third post. Right below is a rock, you can't see it from here, but there is that rock, you hit it at just the right spot, and there you go. Neck snapped, instant death, nearly painless. Half a second at most.
Every day I march to that same post, knowing the thoughts will never prevail.