As in, when I'll commit suicide? Never. I enjoy the dark aspects of life far too much to decide to take myself away from that which I cherish. I live for competition, but if I didn't live for competition, I'd live to be an edgy twat.
There's something that just makes me laugh as I type out my 20th story about a woman who gets strangled to death by another man that she knows. Her life draining and being wrongfully stolen from her. Everything she learned, all the memories she gained, all the smiles, the laughs, the tears, meaning nothing in the end.