I think I shall kill myself. It shouldn’t be that hard.

A rather majestic decision to be made on such a dull day, but I don’t really knw of a better time. Shall I wait for rain, a hurricane or at least the cover of darkness, with a lot of wind? Sterotypes are beautiful things that would be fun to inhabit…Such a pity, good suicide is throwing yourself from a high altitude,wearing a filly white silk nightgown, your hair whipping around like a struggle of chaos in nature, eyes filled with those most precious of all gems, each droplet perfectly painful, delicate and soft but a symbol of something deeper and colder. Oh, and you must be a beautiful virgin. I can not fufill this sterotype, seeing as virginity was stolen and hidden in a mans sick pervertions. And I am, almost by defination of my character, not beautiful! Just a scandalous idea is filling my head… But on the other hand, how reasonable can suicide be? The best I could get is tossing myself out my window, with is about 9 feet from the ground, in my jeans and a tanktop that proudly proclaims my lower back region is availible for kissing, with my hair a complete tangle and a slightly bored expression fixed upon my face.. No, no that simply won’t do. But truly.. the pain of lonleyness is growing but which is almost definitely more preferable? A pathetic existance ruled by when your interest calls or is near you? The light blush of innocence, the moments of heat, the estatic pleasure.. And that’s just the sex. Sex is such a boring thing, I don’t think I shall partake in it. But truly, the point of dating is what? To waste money? To waste space? To see how tightly you can force your bodies together until one of you dies of heatstroke and the other of disgust at your de-odorant?! Spending hours in front of a mirror with some stupid girlfriends who act like their heads have been sliced off, the brains (if they were there to start with) removed, cutons, lettuce and tomatos around the side and a little apple shoved in their mouths? I’m thinking not. And those ridulous expectations! Ugh, I would soon prefer the pain of lonleyness, the simplicity of silence and cool feel of my bare skin along the sheets that house only my secrets! But perhaps.. Perhaps Death would be nice.. I am fixated with a morbid curiousity of death. I’m not sure if I want to die or I am merely curious as it what becomes of our silly selves? I would enjoy listening to my eulogy, writing down a short list of every lie they tell about me, who comes who would rather be hanging themselves along side me then listen to people speak falsities? I think preachers commit many sins. “He was a great person” doesn’t quite cut it. Everyone wants the personal touch to their death (not that they would be experiencing it) and everyone complains, no matter what. It’s a funeral, not a party. We’re not here to drink cocktails with umbrellas! We’re here to mourn (in some cases, celebrate) a death! That’s pathetic, I can not commit suicide because I don’t want people lying about me saying that I was some miracle worker or some shit, while Aunt Barbi in row 3 whispers to her husband Ken “No she wasn’t. She was such a bitch!” and even allowing him the courtesy to roll his eyes is beyond me! Disgust riddles my mind at even that thought.

Well, so far, all I have gotten from this idea’s train is that thoughts are like bulletholes in walls. If you leave them there long they look worse and worse.

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» Alexis (93.152.136.96) on 2010-09-03 05:01:51

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