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Suicide: What It Means to Me
by Briannn McKenzie
Suicide. I think everyone should try it at least once just to get in touch with their tolerance to the dangers that surround us in our everyday lives. Besides, it may just reduce the number of pathetic, weak, self-pitying assholes who wouldn't know real suffering if it shoved an exhaust pipe down their throat. As children, we never had an understanding of what suicide is (unless your religious-know-it-all-eat-shit parents explained it to you, in which case you still don't know, so go molest your children you fucking #$#^%^&$^^&@^! . . .) We barely even understand death before age thirty. But since I've gone from lollypops and Kool Aid to bourbon and cigarettes, I have actually achieved a better reference base for such matters. You see, I don't hate people; I just don't like them. This being said, if you're going to shoot yourself, AIM FOR YOUR HEAD not your leg you sympathy-grabbing dick-bag! If you decide to use a razor, ACTUALLY CUT YOURSELF! There is nothing I hate more than a failed suicide. It's this type of person who will talk about "it" all the time and show off their scars (which they swear you can see when it's hot out). Then they start crying and all you can do is either comfort them or take advantage of their less than reasonable state and fuck their brains out for two days. I choose the latter because I wouldn't like them and I certainly wouldn't date them, so what the hell. I can't wait for the last week of January because that is when they usually get out of the institution the holiday season drove them to. By the second week of February, I've had my fill of abusing them and sucking them dry to pay my way through beauty school . . . and they're out of my life and back in therapy. What a life-affirming experience.
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