Was that...hold up, who was that again?

Yes David, I would love to see Madrid and Copenhagen! Are you interrailing? I may be doing the very same in the summer!

Same for Bristol! Quite glad, really.

Jiveclive! Not been here since 2011, so let's raise a toast to absent friends - and long may they remain absent.

Oh yes, so it was. And goodness, yes!

Anything the Westboro Baptist Church has to say about any minority group

Just the Westboro Baptist Church in general, really...

A great bunch of lads!

I'd think Shirley Phelps wouldn't appreciate being called a lad...

I couldn't agree more.

What irritates me?

Everything!!

My persona on here does well to disguise the fact that I'd rather f*cking die than live in an absolutely battered and broken mind.

Oh, Psycho. I'm so sorry, but so relieved that I'm not alone in that. Neither, likewise, are you. They don't seem to understand such a viewpoint though, but I actually think it's pretty straightforward. The decision may be difficult, but the choice of preference is absolutely not. When it comes to which I prefer - this prison or otherwise - it's a no-brainer. In its most utterly literal sense.

However - the fact that we do not know what comes after-the-fact is probably the only thing which truly keeps us here. After all, if we knew what would happen, it would be either the best or worst thing ever to happen to us individually and as a species. We don't know it's better next door, so we carry on trying to inject the black grass back to life here; we don't know it's worse, either, which does lend weight to the argument for downing tools and moving on to pastures new. But the fact that we don't know either way - whether those new pastures await us, or whether it's just a black hole - means we are nearly stuck in this charade until our natural conclusion, I feel.

I will relate a moment to you, however. The date is 6 June 2012, and it's about midday. My cat Pingu is on an operating table in a veterinary clinic, about to have the injection which will peacefully end his life. He is five years old. He was fine yesterday, but woke up this morning unable to move a muscle. I had found him slumped by the kitchen wall at 9:30am, completely unresponsive. We had taken him to the vet, who told us he had had rigor mortis for several hours and that he was almost dead. He hadn't moved all morning, nor even been able to open his eyes. So we're lifting him up onto the table - he no longer has any energy at all - when, from nowhere, he wails, as loud as a child might scream, for several seconds, and his eyes open as wide as I've ever seen them. At the same time, I see the look in those eyes.

It is a look of utter terror. Petrification. It is harrowing. He has been in silent agony for four hours, probably more, robbed of the capacity to do anything whatsoever - but here, he cries, and he seems absolutely petrified. It subsides, and we lay him down, and I hold his hand, thank him, tell him I'll see him on the other side and wish him good luck, his eyes glaze over and he departs the present.

But I can only begin to imagine what he saw in that moment. This was no Steve Jobs 'oh wow, oh wow, oh wow'. This was fear. Pure fear. That moment has been recurring in my mind's eye recently, because my anxiety has been a prick recently and I've been panicking a lot about death and related stuff. That image, which my mind gleefully photographed for me to keep forever because it really loves me, just there. Imprinted. Remember that this cat was my best friend for each of his five years. He accompanied me everywhere, we walked along our favourite creek together. This was someone I truly loved. And that moment sears itself over and again in my head. My great friend, dying in excruciating pain and petrifying fear.

That moment sends me a message. It's a clear message. It's that if Pingu's death is anything to go by, the process frightens me in unimaginable proportion, more than it ever did, and that although I am afraid a lot now, that now, I have my friends who can console me and at least attempt to drive away those rabid dogs. If I am alone, I am convinced that will be worse than my present predicament.

I live with that moment, and a great many others - the majority of 2013, for example, and all that happened then. I ask myself 'why did I let it happen?'. Several times every day.

I will be bluntly honest - I attempted to take my life at the end of November, and again in the middle of last month. I remain as an outpatient at my local hospital, going to various meetings and appointments and so forth. It's not recovery, it's damage limitation. I must learn how to lessen the destruction caused by the broadsides being hurled at me by my own mind.

But I want to learn how to do that, now more than ever; for my dear friend (and friends), for Pingu, and for myself. Because I have learnt something already from that recurring moment: it is enough to convince me that not only do I not know that death would be better for me or the world - but based on that moment, whatever faces us afterwards seems utterly terrifying. And I am terrified enough already, so how much more beneficial would that be?

For now, the counter on my laptop's desktop ticks over to 21 days. I intend for it to reach 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 30, 40, 50, 60, 70...it's not a landslide victory - it's more like the result of the Scottish independence referendum - but for the next however long, I want to stay.

I think you should too, Psycho.

Hey Dan, where are the book and movie coming out?

Seriously.

You've shared so many personal stories of yours here that I really do think you should write a book.

Working title: Being Dan. And I'll even edit it for you !

Don't get me started on that referendum...

Thanks Mark I've always wanted to make an autobiographical film...and write a book, I have to admit. Might do, might do...

The referendum, yeah, I wasn't impressed with the outcome either.

I should add - it is a kind of catharsis, to speak about things like that. Often in times when I'm not physically talking very well, my writing comes to my rescue, for which I'm thankful, really. And I can only hope that I'm helping someone else somewhere out there in the ether, too.

Thanks for the fantastic writing piece, Dan.

I don't quite have an all-consuming feeling of ''OH *beep* OH *beep* I WANT TO DIE'', I'm quite empty and detached actually. It's pretty unlikely I'll act out any impulses, but I wouldn't half mind being involved in a shop robbery, I'd do my best to ensure that I get shot.

That's alright

Yeah, I'm much the same, for the most part. It's not an urge, in the same way as other things, I don't have a burning desire to be dead...I liken it to...yeah, I think I've got it. I'm walking along on a crisp afternoon, the sun's shining, some clouds wander by; there's fog ahead, and I say 'shouldn't we be avoiding that fog?' but I just drift further towards it, and eventually it envelopes me, and I'm coasting around in a world of greyness. It's not even raining, it's just bone dry and cold. There's no-one else here, and I walk around probably in circles until the light begins to fade, and first twilight falls, then night, and soon enough, it's just dark for all of space and time.

I wake up and several days have passed - sometimes weeks. March to July last year is a hazy blur. How I wish January to September 2013 could be the same. Overall, I'd say I've been 'out of it' in one way or another, on and off, since 2012, or even 2010. At least 2012, probably 2010.

So the emptiness, yes...that's accurate.

Those stupid PPI calls. I mean do people REALLY still have PPI!?

Australia participating in the EUROvision Song Contest. The clue's in the name, folks...