suicide

I'm too much of a coward to kill myself. And too much of a coward to live

Mama, I know you used to ride the bus. Riding the bus and it__ hot and bumpy and crowded and too noisy and more than anything in the world you want to get off and the only reason in the world you don__ get off is it__ still fifty blocks from where you__e going? Well, I can get off right now if I want to, because even if I ride fifty more years and get off then, it__ the same place when I step down to it. Whenever I feel like it, I can get off. As soon as I__e had enough, it__ my stop. I__e had enough.

I realize how depraved it was to instill false guilt in an innocent child's conscience, causing a distorted image of life, God, & self, leaving little if any feeling of personal worth.

Oh no!_ replies Monsieur Tuvache indignantly. __e__e not murderers, you know. You have to understand that__ prohibited. We supply what is needed but people do the deed themselves. It__ their affair. We are just here to offer a service by selling quality products,_ continues the shopkeeper, leading the customer towards the checkout.

sometimes life isn__ worth the pain. i__ going for a swim. goodbye, my love.

The walls of the cell fell away, the sky came down, I saw the big yellow bird.

I often think of death. True. Suicide is a reasonable option. True. My sins are unpardonable.I stare at the question. My sins are unpardonable. I stare at the question. My sins are unpardonable. I leave it blank.

Put the gun to my head and paint walls with my brains.

I know from my own experience that suicide is not what it seems. Too easy to try to piece together the fragmented life. The spirit torn in bits so that the body follows.

Messy, isn't it?

No neurotic harbors thoughts of suicide which are not murderous impulses against others redirected upon himself.

The reason I don't Kill Myselfis because I know I can.

There isn__ a name for my situation. Firstly because I decided to kill myself. And then because of this idea:I don__ have to do it immediately.Whoosh, through a little door. It__ a limbo.I need never answer the phone again or pay a bill. My credit score no longer matters. Fears and compulsions don__ matter. Socks don__ matter. Because I__l be dead. And who am I to die? A microwave chef. A writer of pamphlets. A product of our time. A failed student. A faulty man. A bad poet. An activist in two minds. A drinker of chocolate milk, and when there__ no chocolate, of strawberry and sometimes banana.

He pulls the gun away from his head and sets it on the coffee table. He wonders who first called it a coffee table. He gets to his feet and walks into the hallway. He wonders who first called it a highway. He wonder who first named anything. How did someone look at a dog and decide what to call it? It__ all so random. Everything is so goddamn random.

Alan! How many more times do I have to tell you? We do not say __ee you soon_ to customers when they leave our shop. We say __oodbye_, because they won__ be coming back, ever. When will you get that into your thick head?

I brought the newspaper close up to my eyes to get a better view of George Pollucci's face, spotlighted like a three-quarter moon against a vague background of brick and black sky. I felt he had something important to tell me, and that whatever it was might just be written on his face.But the smudgy crags of George Pollucci's features melted away as I peered at them, and resolved themselves into a regular pattern of dark and light and medium gray dots.The inky black newspaper paragraph didn't tell why Mr Pollucci was on the ledge, or what Sgt Kilmartin did to him when he finally got him in through the window.

The fact that she was still alive felt wrong, out of balance. She didn't feel special, or protected, or gods-bound. She thought the gods had acted to protect the roan, and she had just been along for the ride. It was the roan who was special, not she.I should be dead, she thought. If she was dead, then all would have been settled. The warlord's men would have been satisfied to see her body swept away, the roan would have been safe from Beck's whip, the ghost of tyhe man she had killed could have gone to his rest. There was a rounding off - a justice - in her death. But alive, no one was satisfied and no one was safe.

There once was a woman named Story Easton who couldn't decide if she should kill herself, or eat a double cheeseburger.