I don't think anyone here will believe me, which is ok. I just want to tell someone. It feels like I am living two lives and this is too much for me to bear.

I remember it like it was yesterday. 6 years ago I worked a night shift as a security guard, so when I was on break I would go to Dennys to get some coffee. When I was in the bathroom there I found a baggie of cocaine. I had never done any hard drugs, I used to smoke weed back in high school but that was it. But I didn't have any self preservation instincts and wanted to experiment, so I huffed some and saved the rest. I felt amazing on cocaine. It felt like the missing piece of the puzzle which I have been looking for my entire life. After doing it once I decided to get myself set up with a dealer who I knew from a friends friend who sold me weed back in high school. And I ran out within a few days. I think you can see where this is going, I developed an addiction. And cocaine is expensive. At one point I started pawning a bunch of things I owned, and then I started borrowing money from people, all just to buy more coke. But one day when I was thinking about how to make money, I realized that since I have a good connection to relatively pure cocaine at a relatively cheap price, I could lace it and sell it at a high markup to people who don't know any better. It felt like a light bulb went off in my head. I would seek out mischievous teenagers, rich people, and anyone of the like.

I started making money again for the first time in 3 months. I started paying back my debts and taking care of myself. But my ambitions didn't stop there. I have always hated the monotony of life and I have always yearned for a life of excitement, even if it meant dying young. I started researching the production of cocaine, and I decided I would first expand to the point that I could afford to produce my own cocaine, and then once I do that I would start networking with cartels and gangs. But I also started selling some other drugs too, I grew my own pot and shrooms, and networked to find people who could sell me meth, heroin, opiates and benzos. And then I started franchising. I would get friends and trusted associates I had met through selling and buying drugs and have them be drug dealers for me while we split the profit. They would recruit dealers to work for them, and I would start maintaining a decentralized business model so that if someone snitches, only one person goes down. I started racking thousands of dollars a day. But I couldn't just quit my job and live off of the income I got from drugs, since the IRS would know what was going on. But then I found a video on Youtube (from CGP grey, I think, IDK it was a long time ago) that explained how the IRS lets you file income as coming from illegal activity and the government isn't allowed to use those tax forms as evidence, so I just did that.

By this point I had formed what was practically a gang, and I started trying to network with other gangs. But they saw me as a competitor and we would have disputes with them. This one latin gang leader in particular was threatening to kill me after we couldn't negotiate, so I decided to retaliate by having him killed first. I tracked him down and figured out where he lived, and decided to have people firebomb his house. I thought that I would feel horrible doing something like this, but instead it felt thrilling. But unfortunately, he wasn't present in the house. His family was. When I looked up news for that area expecting to see that he had died I was happy, but when I read the article and found out that an elderly couple and 4 kids were horrifically killed I felt sick. I felt guilty. I still hate myself. But I also knew that this gang leader was going to come after me, and the police might as well if they were to find any evidence. I became deeply paranoid to the point of psychosis, and that combined with the stimulants and the guilt made my life filled with terror and dread. I had a friend of an associate help fake my death and get me a new ID, and I fled. I started a new life in a state which I won't name. But I decided to give my family a letter telling them everything (I had never told them about the drugs or anything, but apparently they suspected that something was up). They haven't talked to me since then. And I don't blame them.

My life is lonely and sad. I work at a post office, I go home to an empty apartment. I have no friends, no hobbies, I just do heroin and watch TV until I fall asleep. I live vicariously through daydreams of what could have been had I not fucked everything up. I wish I never went to Dennys. I wish I was content with my monotonous life. But I don't feel sorry for myself, because I burned an innocent family to death. I will go to hell when I die. And I have accepted that.