Why you should kill yourself 

Friday, 4 February 2022

A famous French writer who lived only four days of his life in the 1960s and probably doesn’t need to be taken seriously anymore, once said that suicide was the only rational response to the absurdity of life although it’s possible that he was being ironic especially since he didn’t kill himself although his life did end prematurely and rather spectacularly in a car crash, when instead of using the train ticket he had bought, and travelling home with his wife, he decided to get a ride with a friend. 

i shouldn’t even be taking up space on the planet, wasting its precious resources, my house, this excellent quiet little apartment for which i pay an unreasonably low rent and which people would kill for probably, this air i breathe and the CO2 i breathe out, this sourdough bread made with organic wheat which i am eating now and which the lord gives us, or rather sells to us wholesale at a 30% discount, thirty loaves at a time, and which we freeze, yes we run a freezer specifically to keep our daily bread at -18 celsius.

and the big formless pile of shit i deposit almost every morning and laugh at because this disgusting mess has been inside my body for a day night and i flush it away as if it has nothing to do with me. yeah fuck it. let someone else deal with it.

At some point yesterday, perhaps in the later part of the morning, or was it the early part of the afternoon, i came to the conclusion that i am, once again, depressed, d.e.p.r.e.s.s.e.d. 

I am the biggest loser on the planet, in the entire history of so-called human civilisation. the way i feel and what i think about my-so-called-self, is really too much for words, it is ineffable, impossible to articulate, which is a tragedy for one who has at times allowed themselves to think of, and even once upon a time, six years ago when my book was published, to feel like, a writer.

and now i find my-so-called-self experiencing a state of mind … or is it more than that, is it actually a state of the soul, i am totally unable to describe the reality of it accurately, not that i am lacking metaphors. there is a hole where my soul would be, a stinking, smelly abyss, a festering pus filled wound, which no matter how often you drain it, rapidly fills itself again from somewhere.

but the simple phrase ‘i am a waste of space’ sums it up rather nicely.

i check the very short list called ‘reasons not to kill yourself’ that i keep in a corner of what is left my brain after decades of drugs and alcohol abuse and realise that once the matriarch is dead, one of the reasons will be gone. 

There is only one thing worse than a young fool and that’s an old fool, no matter how annoying the young fool is to the old fool.