… To be surrounded by people who hate you, to have every movement filled with grinding pain, to live in a world that takes more and more, and offers nothing but lies, false hope and contempt in return. Yeah, life is great, and if you want to end it, to turn around and say:- “Fuck You Jimmy. Screw your lies, and screw this miserable, exploited and downtrodden existence”, to take the first and only truly independent and self serving action in this fucking ‘orrible existence, well, what do the gaolers say? Oh no! Quel surprise, there must be something wrong with my head. I must be mistaken, ‘cos life is beautiful and wondrous, and full of surprises. Well, bollocks. More lies. You just want more, don’t you? Another pound of flesh through the mince grinder of life. Well, I, for one, have had enough. This is not a cry for help. I don’t need your stinkin’ Â help. This, I can do on my own. This is a cry of defiance. A middle finger up at all of your rent-seeking greed and intolerance. Hate me if you like. I already hate you all and everything you stand for.
share your suicide story
Report Post
Please log in to report posts
2 comments
Life is what we make it they say. What they say is most definitely wrong. Is it not R. Dawkins who says we are born to lead the lives we live. Burglars are born to be burglars?
Actors are born to be Actors, to be rich, famous and successful.
We are born to fail throughout our lives, and make the headlines in the newspaper. ‘Found dead’ is how it will be printed. It is fate that a small column in the local newspaper be devoted to us. A brief paragraph. Celebrities will get a two page spread on their new hat!.. Because that matters.
It is life that is giving us the one finger my friend. It is god that is firing us. Bringing upon us the pain we endure every day, every moment. I for one say I’m not fired, but I quit.
Don’t hate me, I’m not here to give you advice, I’m just stating my opinion, concurring with you if you like. Like or dislike my comments, it means nothing to me.
Why should we give a damn about newspaper inches? Fame is for other people. Why should I care about it? These conventions are but another link in the accidental chains that imprison us. If I am to pass, let me pass by silently and unnoticed. Come to think of it, why the hell am I even writing this? Heh…. I guess it makes me feel good… this selfish release from convention. Once we have looked over the edge, flirted, however briefly with chucking it in, other taboos start seeming equally foolish. Our prison is part real, part economic, part other people and all their craven greed and lust for power, fame, glory, and all other transient vanities, but the greatest part is in our own heads. We are made prisoners by our own convention, our upbringing. Curses to a good upbringing. What freedom it would be to have been raised a villain? Well, anyway, the upset of convention is the first step. The next is the illusion of power over the self. The final scene sees me reclaim my cell, my cubicle, my place back again as a “productive member of society” choosing to be blind once more, to be subject once more, to be slave once more, to bow down gratefully and fill the pockets of the greedy with my sweat, with my tears, with my agony. My fate is not yet death, but instead impotent rage, blind agony in the service of the uncaring, unthinking, unfeeling, obese mass of sewerage covered grease, effluent and greed that is our society.