The day I killed myself.

The day I killed myself.

The day I killed myself, I’d had enough; the old saying “enough is enough” played loudly in my head, a never-ending mantra that just wouldn’t stop. I made it stop.

I’d spend hours on how… You ask why, why would you spend so much time and energy on the how? Well… Ask yourself, what you’d do if you killed yourself and it didn’t work? What if I didn’t die? What if you maimed yourself and you lived, lived with a broken body you caused, and failed at such an easy thing to do? Can you even imagine what kind of loser you’d be? All you had to do was kill yourself, and you even fucked that up…

I’d thought long and hard on the when's, dates, time, where, of course, how.

Date: The date should have some kind of meaning if only for me personally. If no one figures it out, that would be fine with me, but I’d like a few close associates to wonder if the date had some deep meaning… note I said associates, I have few friends, even fewer close friends. I’ve just never been able to make good friends. Yeah, a few over the years, friends that you can call and see if they want to stop by the local pub and have a few. Most of those are hoping you’re paying, yeah, I pay, so much for decent friends.

Time: Does the time really matter when you kill yourself? Yeah, it does… Mornings are the only time of the day I enjoy. A fresh start of the day, bright skies and morning breezes, birds singing, traffic light at that hour, lack of noise, it’s all good. It lasts about two hours… Two fucking hours of peace before the neighbor freaks wake up and the yelling starts. You know how it goes… Mom’s yelling at the kids, “Hurry up, you’re going to miss the bus, etc., etc.…” Then the night before, drunks are up and screaming at the wives before they hit the road to jobs they hate, but being the only ones bringing in an income, off they go. I hear a wife scream back… the crack of a hard right hand ends that.

Where: Well, where in the hell do you think? Do you think I’m going down to the local Museum and committing suicide on some stupid display of the Crowning achievements of the 18th century? Seriously, I almost left this “Where” out. The only reason is that some have picked a spot where they had strong memories: fun, love, hate, or the ever-present demon of pain. I had a spot I thought about up in the forest area, heading to the coast. I had a girlfriend once who had hiked into an area and then, later in life, buried a loving pet there. We hiked up the steep slope, and she showed me the place. For some reason, it was a special place to her. I have no such place, pity me… fuck off.

How: I’ve covered this… The how has to be for sure; fucking this up would be the perfect way to prove to everyone you’ve ever known that you are the most fucked up piece of shit that ever lived; he/she couldn’t even commit suicide without fucking it up. They should be required to put that on your tombstone when you finally get it right or just die because that’s what the gods finally decided to do with your idiot self. “This idiot finally came to death, not because he/she tried but because we were all finally gifted that.”

Gun, knife, pills, jump off a bridge (covered that), hit by a truck (again covered that), the list is getting slim. You’re either going to do it, or you're gonna find a way to blame it on someone else… That makes you a punk in my book…

Gun: If you don’t freak out and miss or just blow half your head off, it’s one of the for sure ways… mess it up, and there you go with living on with half a head. Nice job… If you don’t think of the cleanup crew, then you are a heartless asshole in my book. How’d you like to have to clean up a spattered asshole with a huge hole in the back of his/her head with goo all over the walls… Nice jerk…

Knife: Oh sure, you’re going to stab yourself in the heart… I don’t think so. Slash your throat… not likely. I’ve heard that if you ice a wrist, you might be able to get along with that as long as you go down the length of the arm deep, not a pussy cut across the wrist; after a few tries, some get it right. Doing it in a nice hot bath keeps the wound open, and if lucky, you bleed out. Not too much of a mess for those who have the job of cleaning up.

Pills: Not a bad idea, if you have the right pills. Again... fuck it up and off to the races you go with anyone that knows you, plus the media will have a ball at your expense. The new designer drug fentanyl is very promising; lots of people are overdosing and dying, might be a winner. Clean, no goo for those people to clean up. The only question is: do you want everyone to think you’re a drug user that fucked up? Only you can answer that question.  Do you even care? I guess I do…

I’m not going to bore you with how I did it… It’s always a personal choice… do it right and you’re dead, if not… live with it.

I got up the next morning and had coffee with cream. Left the house in the bright morning sun, birds were chirping, and the sounds were soft. I walked away from the city and into the wooded area just outside of town. The wind made soft purring sounds in the branches, the grass soft under my feet; I noticed I had no shoes, just didn’t seem to matter. It was a beautiful morning.

I came to a little clearing in the trees with a clear view back towards the town where I’d lived most of my life; it was all gray as though that no longer existed and was fading. I guess for me it didn’t; a thought came to my mind… I hope I didn’t make a mistake.

From the Ramblings.

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