Saturday, March 4

Spell check cleared: no errors. Jeremy looked at his watch with a satisfied sigh and read over his last piece once more. He wanted it to be perfect: anti-depressing and to reflect who he was. Suicide notes were often done quickly and with little thought, scribbled down in the last moments of someone’s miserable life. Apologetic. Pathetic. People walked in to a sight depressing enough and suicide notes were rarely the highlight of one’s day. Jeremy wanted to be different. He read:

Hey! What’s up guys? Hope everyone’s doin’ fine. You’re probably wondering about the body that lies beside this note. I didn’t kill that guy, that’s me. I swear it wasn’t me; it was the one armed man! I don’t want you guys to think I died depressed because I’m not. In fact I’m having a pretty good day. Which is why I’m motivated enough to do something most people can’t, through lack of motivation or whatever, bring themselves to do. And you’d probably agree that a lot of people should kill themselves to make the world a better place. I’ve always wondered why people who are depressed and at their wits end, find the motivation to kill themselves. Seems like they’d be too apathetic about it, or whatever... You’ve probably got questions, and I’ll be happy to answer them for you. Most suicide noters don’t do a nice job. They seem to always leave their friends and relatives with unanswered questions: Why did he do it? Why now? Why not ten years ago? My goal is to answer all your questions. I hope I’ve thought of everything, because I will not be answering any more.

Why did I do it? Well, I haven’t yet, but I’m all gung-ho about it, so I’ll write as if it already happened. It all happened when I was watching a rerun of Survivor–I realized how awful and bad network television was. I never much liked television, but I was compelled, probably by the same force that makes customers repeatedly go to Walmart for their shopping needs, to keep watching week after week. Finally, my television broke. Without television, I got bored out of my skull, and asked myself, “what else can I do with my Saturday afternoons?” Suicide was the answer that stuck in my mind.

How’s the wife and kids? (I’m asking you that.) I hope they’re fine. As much as I support the intention behind the suicide of dead-beat dads and parents who beat their kids, I think parents should do what they’re capable of to help those less fortunate (their kids can’t even rent R-rated movies). Being the considerate guy I am, I did this guilt-free. I don’t have any wives or kids. At least not legitimate ones. Thus, I’m not leaving anybody who needs me. At thirty-six, I figured it’d be a good time to die, before I got desperately old and started dishing out cheesy pick-up lines to hookers. I have standards you know.

Thirty-six is a good age for suicide. I’ve outlived many greats like Elvis, John Belushi and Mitch Hedberg. (Alright, not Elvis, but cut me a break. I can't compete with THE KING.) I’ve outlived children who died from drug habits, alcohol poisonings and all those kids who ate marbles and asbestos. It’s survival of the fittest. I liked it better when cave-men ran the earth. They consistently died before the age of 40, before they needed wheelchairs, before they needed a health care program, and before they elected jackass Presidents into office. Sometimes unfortunately, they died after their wives caught them cheating with the cave-girl next door. Sometimes it was directly related.

The best part of life is often childhood. You get to run around with no job or worries. Your primary goal is to grow-up so you can gain more responsibilities and become responsible. Kids, listen up: it’s not good to be responsible. Every time there’s a problem, somebody always asks, “who’s responsible for all of this?” I can say I lived through that part happily. And teenager-ing was fun, and college, and my twenties. I’ve had a good time.

Many people die with no more to offer the world. I die with much more to offer it. It’s good to die when you’re on top of the world instead of the bottom. People think, “Wow, we were robbed of years more of his talent” (like John Belushi and many real-world greats). When you’re at the bottom, nobody really cares, or if they do it’s pity. I get to go out on my own terms and I think that’s why I’m better than you.

Many people die sick, senile, or unexpectedly. I’m not going to let Death grab me by surprise through some freak car accident, in a hostage situation while I’m at Denny’s eating my Grand Slam, or with a sudden attack of Cancer. No. Death is my bitch. I leave whenever I want to.

As for my method of death, I went with the pistol-six shooter. Cow-boyish and conventional, but nonetheless an effective means of accomplishing your goal. I hope you don’t think me unoriginal for going with a gun, but the other means didn’t appeal to me. Let me explain:

I thought of jumping off a high building. Those last few moments of skydiving and free-falling must be exhilarating, especially when you know you have no parachute. It would be a rush and a sweet way to go, but what about the negatives? Who knows how many people change their mind about suicide while they’re plummeting to their doom? I didn’t want to be one of those people. Also, those get a lot of negative publicity from the media. And if I landed on somebody, I could kill them and get a ticket for vehicular, no human-body-cular manslaughter. It would also be a bitch to clean up. And what if my suicide note flew off when I was flying through the air? Noone would get to read the cool thoughts I had before my death. So I ruled this one out.

I thought of drowning myself, but drowned bodies are bloated, blue and freaky as hell. Also, I like breathing air. It’s worked pretty well for me. I couldn’t see myself consciously trying to fill my lungs with water. Carbon monoxide, second hand smoke and marijuana smoke: yes. But not water. It’s just not satisfying. I could see myself trying to do it and each time holding my breath. There had to be something better.

I thought of killing myself with a drug overdose. Many greats have gone out that way. You’d experience the joy of drugs until you went into a coma. People always warn you about drugs and how dangerous they are. But people do them anyways. There must be reasons greater than the negatives. And hey, if you decided you’re going to die anyways, fuck your health. Who dies healthy? This is why my coroner’s report might find lots of marijuana in my body, but finally conclude my death was indeed caused by the bullet to the head. Drug OD’s always leave the possibility of being rescued when someone stumbles in for a visit, and that would just look bad. Finally, drugs are more of a woman’s wussy way out. Women try to kill themselves with drugs all the time. Men use guns. This is why guys are 78% more likely to be successful in killing themselves. Women, if you are complaining about inequality in the work force, you’ve got to prove you can do things as well as us men, starting with suicide.

I thought of hanging, but that is sooooo pre-1900's. I thought of spontaneously combusting, but figured it was just too difficult for an amateur like myself. I thought of dousing myself in barbeque sauce, visiting a killer bee-farm with my sling-shot and fleeing like a little girl.

Then, I started thinking creatively. I thought of killing myself in a real-world game of Frogger on Interstate 84 at rush hour. I would build myself a beautiful green frog costume and go at it! I realized, of course, that I am far too nimble and quick to not dodge cars and I’d get to Level 43 before I got a game-over when cops showed up, stopped traffic and tried to convince me to go away in their police-vehicle. If it was Frogger, I could help my goal by placing a bottle of Crystal on each side of the Interstate. Each time I made it across, I’d take another few swigs of high-quality alcohol. I figured I would get effed up enough to get splattered before I finished two bottles. It would be unique, exciting and fun. Frogger has always been a great game to me. This was looking promising. I came really close to choosing this one.

But then I started thinking about others. I would probably wreck someone’s car. I mean, not as much as a deer would, because I’m not a Sumo wrestler, but they’d probably have to mess with insurance, and that’s never fun for anybody. Also, unless I got hit by a large Semi, a Toyota Tundra, or a Ford Escape-like vehicle, the “accident” could end up hurting someone. Lastly, it might ruin someone’s day. I’m not out to ruin anybody’s day, so I decided against this.

I settled with the six-shooter as the most effective, safest way to die. You can’t argue with results. Also, I’m going to play a game of Russian Roulette. I’ll see how far I get and see if you can beat my score!! I could set a world record. Who knows?

Jeremy finished contentedly, imagining how someone would react to all of this, took a sip of Mt. Dew and took another big hit of Mary Jane that sent him coughing. He was high and loved it. He looked at his unpaid bills stacked on the coffee table and the words in red Sharpee he had written on them: “HAHA, BITCHES!! SUCK IT!!” He started laughing. He wouldn’t have to pay his bills! It was his one little way of stickin’ it to the man. He had maxed out his Capital One Platinum, VisaGold, MasterCard and several others with evil satisfaction. When the sales clerk apologetically said, “Your card is maxed, sir,” he had smirkingly responded, “Haha...sweet! Try this one.”

He looked around his completely baren apartment. ALL of his stuff had been donated to his friends, family or charities over the last week Credit card collectors couldn’t repossess his belongings. He was sticking it to evil credit companies who ruined thousands of people’s lives with their hidden charges, looks-too-good-to-be-true interest rates, and other immoral nonsense. He counted his six silver bullets with the word “Lucky” inscribed on it. Lucky was his nickname in high school. You think you get away from it, but in the end you never do. He inserted bullet one with maniacal snickering, closed it and gave it a spin. He bent down and wrote on his note once more:

Well, it’s time to let the games begin! Here goes bullet one!

He placed the barrel against his dome and took another hit from his bong. He shuddered, gritted his teeth, squinted his eyes and squeezed.

“Okey dokey.” He wrote again. “Looks like I was too tough for one bullet. Time for round two...”


“I’m not dead yet, but I’m going to persevere. Wish me luck with round three!!”

He took a smaller hit and inserted bullet three. “Here goes nothing!” He jerked the trigger.

“I’m well on my way to a success with round four. Cheers, everyone!”

With an inserted fourth bullet in the chamber, he squeezed.

“Looks like I’m getting a high score after all!! Not many people have lived through four rounds of this game. Here goes round freaking’ five!!! It’s totally insane!”

He was certain he would die now as he gave the revolver a spin.

Eyebrows raised. His jaw dropped. “Wow,” he wrote down. “I can’t believe I didn’t die that time! Death is jerkin’ me around. I’m starting to think my gun is broken, but it shouldn’t be. If it isn’t, these are the last words I’ll write as a living individual like yourselves. I’m going out with a bang! Final Round. Round Six...”
He placed in the sixth bullet and gave it a spin, though he didn’t see the point. Habit. With closed eyes and a mouthful of smoke, his finger squeezed the trigger....


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In the year 2006 I resolve to:
Blame Canada.