suicide: the coward’s way out (revisited)
Yesterday I received a post card from a cemetery selling me its services. I guess that, when you cross the magical line of 42 (three weeks away), you’re good as dead — how sarcastic yet interesting. I contemplated my life and suicide attempts (always ending with me laying on the cold floor drowning in thr darkness of my room in pain, marks around my neck, drooling and gasping for air; why die right away when prolonging death can be much crueler and painful… the only major sin you can’t ever have time to repent from, as ruled by the Roman Catholic Church to avoid martyrdom). I just had to smile and wonder what if I’d died back then (close to two and half annoying decades ago). Who’d have really mourned and how many bastards would’ve cheered? If I can dare say one thing about the latter would be that as many people liked me as those who despised me. Fuck ’em all especially if there’s no god!