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.
—click—

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

—click—

“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.
—click—

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

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

“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.
—click—

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....

For whoever doesn't know me, here are six things you should know about me:

1.)I live with my parents.
2.)I don't have a job or a car.
3.)I'm taking a semester off from school.
4.)I don't have a girlfriend.
5.)I crashed my dad's car recently.
6.)I'm gorgeous.

Well, to be fair, not everyone would use the word gorgeous, but when I ask, "Mirror, Mirror, on the wall..." the only face that appears is my own.

Talking to James yesterday, he remembered I don't have the connection to play Halo2 online. His response: "oh noo! You don't have Halo! What do you do!?" (He meant this concernedly, not sarcastically.) I said, "Without Halo, there's really only one thing to do: Prozac." He's like, "oh nooo. Really?" hahaha. No, it was a joke. But then I realized, yeah...given the above six reasons, I have good reasons to be depressed. But I'm neither depressed nor depressing to be around. I think everyone who knows me would say I'm fun to be around (especially your mom!). I think it's because I maintain my positive ora, listen to music, and frequently crack lame jokes that I laugh at. Something like: you know who's a real bitch? Lassie.

Sometimes I think the person that loves me most is my dog, but he doesn't even say it. Unless "ruff ruff!" means "I love you." But usually it just means, "let me in!" or "I'm hungry." My dog is pretty cool. He's a friendly, shiny, 7-year-old chocolate lab with a laziness that rivals my Aunt Helda's.

My dog never plays fetch, (neither does Aunt Helda). I forgot this yesterday, got him riled up with a tennis ball, then went outside and hucked it in the yard. My dog ran a couple feet then just watched as it sailed through the air. He looked at me. He looked back at the ball. I gave him lots of encouragement. "Come on! Come on, Cocoa! Get it! Get your ball! Get the ball, you bum!" So he decided to go over to the ball, started sniffing it. Then he took a dump right on the ball. It was really amazing. Then he came back and no amount of convincing him could get him to go back and get the tennis ball. He doesn't like things that bounce; he likes bones and things that are hard. If he was a person, he would be an unfunny version of Mario Cantone. That's okay. I'm content with my lazy-ass gay dog.

He doesn't really come when you call him. It takes lots of convincing...usually six or seven calls and promise of a reward. He's disobedient, but at least he practices civil disobedience. According to Gandhi and Martin Luther King, those are the best kinds of disobedience. At least he doesn't go around biting people viciously like Rot Wilers when you tell him to sit or play dead. When we tell him to play dead, usually he's already doing it. And when we tell him to sit, he's usually already sitting. I figure at least calling out what he's already doing makes him appear somewhat obedient.

In conclusion, I like dogs, flowers, and shiny things, and things that go, "boom!" Also, the best thing about car crashes is the feeling of excitement right before it happens. And the thing that makes raquetball better than tennis is that in tennis you don't get that feeling of claustrophobic euphoria. Also, since all my heroes like Mitch Hedberg keep dying, my new favorite hero is Shani Davis. If you saw his interview last week right after winning a gold medal, you'd know why (hint: he hates reporters).

The moral of the story: if you constantly overdose your dog with tranquilizers, he will be very lazy.

------------------------------------------------

If I knew where this was, I would never pee anywhere else.

For those of you who care: My Yesterday.

I remember yesterday vividly; I remember it like it was yesterday.

Yesterday was good. I remember I was psyched because I saw Chuck Norris on an infomercial for the Total Gym. His presence gave me energy. I used this energy to complete various chores. I wrote emails to potential employers, I researched places to work, I looked up the translations for various Italian phrases, I even washed my dog with nothing but flea shampoo and determination. I even continued my trend of doing the dishes, laundry, keeping the house tidy, and setting necessary things on fire. Even if you think otherwise, I'm not really a pyro; I burned only things like wood to keep warm, trash to erase from our presence, and the houses of my enemies.
Yesterday was good because I was going to see my friends from Alfred like James, Josh, Mark, Nick, Brian and even Derek and Bob, who I hadn't seen in a year-ish. So I did my version of home work, then left my forsaken house.

After driving for a while, jamming to myself sing Barry Manilow, a revelation hit me: ice. I'm kidding. My revelation was that today was not a good day to go to Alfred--it was a good day to die!! Immediately after discovering this, I hit a patch of ice on a turn, did some excellent driving maneuvers, and found myself in a ditch two seconds later. I was like, "this sucks, I'm in a ditch and I can't drive out of here. Shit, I'm gunna have to get a tow truck. Shit, I'm not gunna make it to Alfred. Shit, I'll have to file insurance and up go my premiums." So I got out and looked at my car and all that was wrong was some chippage of the front and back bumper. So I called my dad, after figuring out the wording to best reveal my hidden surprise for him. It was something like this: "Hey dad. I um. I'm in a ditch and I can't get out." "Did you total the car?" "No, but there's some damage to the bumper" "Shit. Okay, call your mom and we'll be down. where are you and blablabla?" Some guy pulled over and tried to tow me out but that failed. A policeman showed up. Triple A showed up. My parents showed up. It was a party. But at this party there was no alcohol--only police reports, raised insurance premiums and proud parents. Worse than that, it was really frickin' cold out. It grew so cold that there was snow on the ground and on my jacket. It sucked.

So we drove back up to my house which was like 30 minutes. My mom was doing the speed limit which was way faster than I had been going. I was probably going 45mph, knowing I could be going faster, and with a knowing determination that it would take me a lot longer to get to Alfred with these conditions. Then again, I had been driving unknowingly on completely bald back tires. As in most cases, baldness was not a good thing.

The triple A guy got stuck in our driveway. We congratulated him and offered him a cup of hot chocolate, but he declined. My dad got the tractor out and I called for Mr. Rose's support. By the time Mr. Rose got there, my dad had towed the tow truck back down our driveway. The car is still across from our house in the park. That guy did not get a tip. Well, we told him to try hitting the gas next time, but he didn't strike me as the kind of guy who finished Canandaigua Academy high school. Maybe he'll learn from this experience, but it's not the kind of experience you put on your resume.

I didn't get to go to Alfred, but I'll never forget yesterday. The car is still across the street with a snapped axle and no doubt a $5,000-6,000 gash (that's American, not lovely Canadian) in my dad's bank account that we can't afford, yet I still found some good in all of this: we will save on our gas expenses over the next week or so without a car. And that's a hefty bundle! Actually, as I think of this, my dad said he'd try to get the old 89' Civic insured and back on the road ASAP. Shit. Looks like we won't be saving on gas afterall. But if there's one thing we take away from this it's that my dad learns a lesson: never lend me the car ever again.

At least I'm not getting owned by a goat.


so that's what happened yesterday,
--Peace
---------------------------
update: We have no insurance on that car somehow because we got too many skills and we like to take chances. The '89 is on the road and fixing this car could be done for between $500-1000 Canadian, which means it's practically nothing. Looks like it wasn't as bad as we thought! And Kate, I never used the word wussy. You're insane. Ha.