I tried to attempt suicide yesterday. I ran into a few problems though.
1) I don’t know how to tie a hangman’s knot. I never paid that much attention in knotmaking class, because while they were doing that, I was studying quantum physics behind my knotmaking textbook. I regretted it.
2) I don’t have any pills with which I would like to commit suicide. I could picture someone laughing at my pathetic corpse, saying “this bitch killed herself with Flintstones chewable tablets! Well gol-ly! what a world!” and I hated that.
3) I have been fed, over the years, a lot of very misleading information about the proper way to slash one’s wrist from both emo kids and movies. Given this confusion, I didn’t feel confident enough to try and do it myself. If anything’s worth doing, it is worth doing right.
4) I don’t believe that citizens should carry guns. What the fuck would I need a gun for? Apparently this occasion. Perhaps I ought to reconsider my gun policy.
5) I don’t think that I possess the necessary skill to consciously choke on my own vomit.
5b) the same goes for swallowing my own tongue
6) Jumping out of my window would certainly hurt because I would land on the parking structure, but it wouldn’t kill me. It would leave me alive, disappointed, and with a limp. And nobody wants a fucking limp.
7) Drano. Fuck that.
8) At the end of my rope, I considered sticking my head in the oven. I mean, I know, Sylvia Plath already did it, it’s kind of passe, and after all the jokes I’d made about Sylvia Plath being the world’s worst baker, I didn’t think that I could stand the possibility that when I died, people who weren’t me would be able to make those kind of jokes. I picture going to Hell (let’s be honest here) and running into Sylvia in the depressed pretentious writer wing of Hell, sort of like a bad chatroom, and she has this long list of one-liners ready for my sad demise, and you know I can’t take that. But I decided that it was time to man up and I marched into the kitchen with my head held high and ready for the racks. After a half hour of sweating and mild burns, I realized what the problem was. I have an electric oven. I need a better job.
However, I was undeterred in my decision. I found a mix of optimism that has always gotten me through. My teachers, delusional with the prospect of success, had always told me I could do anything I put my mind to. And moreover, this is America! By Job, if I want to die, I should be able to do it! with some hard work, faith, and that good ol’ fashioned can-do American attitude! So I embarked on my mission to die. I lay down on the ground and just tried to die. I mean it, man, I gave it my best goddamn shot, but after a while, I had to go to the bathroom, and after a while of writhing there uncomfortably, I just felt foolish. I got up, a pale failure, and decided to reconsider my options.