Wednesday, 28 November 2007

killing yourself

killing yourself

Had enough,
Just can’t face work tomorrow,
Owe your friend a tenner
Fancy a change?

But why oh why?
Pick one, capitalist society eeching out our every last desire to continue, TV, humans, the rain, those people who don’t give you all your change back when you’ve bought something overpriced anyway, late busses, scallies, people who are never happy, the band Muse, adverts with a message…. And on and on forever more. I know, what a beautifully depressing array of choice we have.

Given this is your last day on this planet don’t take it upon yourself to wear that Nirvana shirt as some martyrdom reference to Kurt Cobain. Spend your last money on a costume befitting to a king of the 21st century, something that they’d have trouble fitting in the coffin and your family and friends will enquire whether you’d joined the cult of bespoke scafolding.

Bedrooms, bridges, railway platforms are statistically speaking, boring. If you’ve had a dream about flying to your death, jump from a zeppelin not a railing. If you desire getting sliced up beyond belief, get a job at a salad factory, then woops.

I love ropes, everyone uses bedclothes, lets have a big thick rope round your neck. Or ancient school, a guillotine, (not the one’s in school) big, slicing, wow. It depends just what effect you’d like, ‘the spurt factor.’ Guns are great, aim at the brains or balls for something rather magical. Drugs are cool, transcending nine dimensions before you even die probably rocks rock.

Now pills are about as creative as washing up to death. They’re a wimp’s way out. “Awe I don’t want to feel no more pain.” D'you know how sappy that sounds. Want to remembered as someone who died throwing up a bit, or blown away, no going for a nap.

Suicide note
Blame, blame, profundity, and revenge. A handy template is included:

Dear World

My flesh is gone. I am gone, I haven’t moved, I’m dead. I don’t hate the world, I just hate Tim. I was living happily until we moved next to Tim. I don’t blame you mum, but if you want to kill yourself in some symbolic gesture, no one would object. That ‘man’ tortured me, I may have seemed a normal child, but Tim made me commit sexual acts on him, he made me molest his nipples telling me to call him Tammy. I thought that was normal, that’s why when Uncle Fred made me do it to him and Aunt Vera I never objected. When Gran took me into the shed I knew she didn’t need me to tidy the shed, it was already tidy.
I didn’t cry, I just wrote these beautiful tenuously linked songs (enclosed) that I would like Thom York to perform live with a host of other famous performers (but not Chris Martin) in a tribute concert called: Me the Messiah- will the world keep turning.

When the police arrest and imprison Tim from this damming evidence and you pluck up the courage to go and visit your sons’ molester (if you’ve not already killed yourself). Then could you say these words from me: “ I told you I’d get you back, and that Megadrive games in heaven with me and here it has extra levels, with power ups and a new character, so there”

After much persuasion my Asian friend convinced me he doesn’t know anyone from Al Qeada and I can’t be a suicide bomber. So instead I am now being consumed in 90% of the takeaways in Manchester and I hope some of them choke on me, so go out and enjoy me, I’m probably great in a bap.

May I live on, in the hopes and bowels of all men.

Sitting in that pub you normally avoid with family you’d rather were dead. Your uncle leans over from his whiskey stooper and proclaims “she would av wanted us to celebrate her and be merry, we shouldn be sad about it”

Now don’t you’d wish he’d die just to see if they would be doing the same for him. Fuck him; your funeral should be depressing as Aldi.

This is how your funeral should go:
Stuff churches; think gigantic tepee on top of a hill. A bear shaped coffin drives up ideally radio controlled by the few synapses in your cortex that the doctor saved by electrically charging them in some frankinstienal series of experiments. At that precise moment a mass of mourners descend to the coffin from all walks of life, hideously distraught, Russians, Mexicans, Chinese, Africans, that you pay to cry out ‘why?’ and beat on the bears chest, which will give the bemused real mourners the obligated implication to do the same.

The service starts with a reading from some statement you made drunk that you really liked, missing out spelling mistakes and repeats of the words shit-fuck. Cue music.

Find those tracks on your albums that your friends always talk over and that your girlfriend said you play too fucking much. These need to be piped just beyond the decibel limit of the eardrums.

While mopping their tears and ears a video screen drops down, to reveal you looking really great. You look over the crowd and make sure you don’t invite a close friend and highlight that he’s not there, like your actually still there, the crowd gasp. Deliver a very 1984 esq. statement about the seemingly pointless nature of life now your gone. Stating the only reason anyone in the tepee could continue would be to find the treasure you hid by following a bizarrely indecipherable series of clues you lay out for them.

Finish the funeral with a two hundred year recital of everyone who ever died ever. Fireworks, of Edinborough Hogmanay proportions will fire at the precise moment Google earth takes it’s annual photograph, spelling out ‘The 21st century is now no more’ deep and gleeming into the night sky.

your end

No comments: