I think about killing myself, a lot. At least two-hundred times per month. Sometimes, I’m not even sad when I think about it. And maybe that’s the ever-present, low-grade depression, but often I’ll think about killing myself just because it seems practical. Sometimes I’ll think to myself, “I’m 31, I should kill myself.” Or, “that book was really sad, I should kill myself,” or, “being married is sometimes fun but othertimes boring and uneventful, I should probably kill myself.” I’m an ungrateful shitbag and should kill myself.
Since I think about killing myself so often, I write a lot of suicide notes. I have an entire journal full of suicide notes. Here’s one that I wrote the other day while having a mental breakdown, and crying hysterically in a car.
“Mom, I made bad decisions and this has nothing to do with your parenting. Okay, maybe a little bit, but I thought you were mostly badass. I’m sorry you had to get all uncomfortable and pregnant for me, then spent eighteen years trying to keep my alive, only for me to “opt out.” I’m a dick, I know. Dad, you have like six other kids, so no big loss. Brothers and sisters, I’m sorry. I always forgot your birthdays, anyway. Husband, if I go into a coma and there is a zombie apocalypse, please leave me a note explaining what happened before you run away. If I fall into a coma and there is no apocalypse, please pull the plug. First, because you’re wasting energy and second, because you’re defeating the purpose of suicide. So, don’t be a dick. If I’m dead: well good! That was the goal! Now is the time to stop whining and enjoy your life. You deserve it!
I’m sorry I was a kind of a shitty wife and I stopped brushing my hair, wasn’t even famous, and was more or less a constant asshole in our relationship. I’m also sorry that I was boring and that we didn’t have sex like four times per day and that we had so many problems with all of your friends because I’m weird and they’re painfully boring.
My advice (you should listen to me because you know I’m always right):Find a nice, “normal” girl who is from your own country, who like looooves to po-go your wang, who isn’t “crazy,”and has a real fucking job and a future (aka not a writer), and love her. Make lots of hairy old man babies, or, aka, “babies,” since all babies look like old men. I fucking HATE when people say babies are cute. They are not cute. Seriously, hold my grandpa and one of my nephews side-by-side and you can’t tell which one recently escaped a vagina. Truth.
Anyways, I will always love you. Well, let’s be honest, I’m dead (hopefully) so I can’t keep loving you because my brain has stopped working (unless I’m a zombie, then I don’t love you, I just want to eat your face off) but I loved you up until I died. A lot. I really, really did, so much that it was poetically painful, kind of always. Also, this isn’t about you, so don’t be a diva. This is about me. Anyways, take care! Oh shit and P.S. Tell your parents that they are NOT invited to my funeral. Tell my friends to get super drunk and have fun and stop being all whiney because it’s my life and I can do whatever the fuck I want, you selfish bastards!
Love and all that,