Why am I still living?

I've thought about killing myself. And not just in the kind of oh-wo-is-me-I-wish-I-were-dead kind of way either. I mean the real thing. Turning off the phone, locking the door, and taking the whole bottle of pills kind of suicidal ideation. Not the small cutting bullshit. I don't know why I don't.
I guess it's cause of Banker. He's like my priest in some ways. He protects me from the world, but also helps enable me to not have to really deal with any of my shit. I guess he loves me, and I guess I might love him if I could or knew how or wanted to know how. Emotionally I'm pretty tone deaf to anything but my own megalomaniacal parabolic arcs. Maybe if he didn't keep me hidden away in this little brownstone apartment, I wouldn't be so glib about it, but he does, so I am.
You see Banker is a very rich and very powerful man, and he fears more than anything in the world that people in his world will discover the truth. The horrible closet inducing truth; that banker is gay.
Come on, right? It's the twenty-first century already. That's what I used to tell him when we first met, but I gave up after he started paying all my bills. I felt like I owed him, oh I don't know, a little comfort, even if it was a false and withering comfort.
Why am I telling you all this? I don't really know. My friend, The Brown Dog Affair, is all about this blogging stuff, and he's been trying really hard to get me to reengage a little bit, so I joined his little literary criticism blog, and now here I am. I really do kinda' like the blatant exhibitionism. I actually miss that in my totally agoraphobic life. Well, enough on this for now.