Maybe Next Time

All I do is walk through life barely alive at all. If I'm a walking corpse, why do I bother living at all? I could do it, you know.
I could walk to the edge of the cliff. I could ride my bike to the train station. I could take an assortment of the pills lying in our cupboard. I could take a bath and breathe in the water. I could fire the gun in my father's closet. Wouldn't that be ironic? He helped this thought be possible. I could take his blade and plunge it in my heart. That could be messy, though. I still want to look presentable in my coffin. My final ironic touch graced to the world. My parents would want me to be pretty at my own funeral. If I weren't, they'd probably burn me instead. Buy a pretty vase.
I'll need a note. Maybe it should start out "to whom it may concern" or "mommy and daddy." They wouldn't understand the irony. I want them to feel the bite. I want them to know I'm attacking them, even after death. I want them to be haunted by my hatred, because they won't feel any grief.
"I know you wanted more from me. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough for anyone. Because of you, I wasn't good enough for myself either. I hope you'll think about what you've done. You've driven me to death. Bury me in a white dress, next to Granddad's grave. He raised me, so it's him I want to lay with eternally. He was my only happiness in life, you know. I hope your life turns to shit and I can't wait to find out how you'll explain this to your snobbish book-club friends. Bye." That should suffice. Oh, wait! "P.S. all my money should go to a suicide prevention charity." That ought to do it.
Am I missing anything? Does it matter? Should I really go through with this? I know I'm too scared. How about I gather everything and I'll do it next time. There's always a next time.