My Dream House and Suicide Letters

My dream house will have a room dedicated to smashing things and cutting myself.

My dream house will have an incredible gun room that will double as an art exhibition plaza.

I'm thinking about starting a suicide diary.

There are a lot of things in this world that I do not understand.

I found my missing piece. It was in the candy factory. I don't go there often, but if I'd thought about the mystery from the simplest viewpoint that would have been the first place I looked.

I've been gone for a while again, but this time it was an unscheduled departure.

It's been difficult not nailing my hand to my desk with the very nice knife I bought at Target. The thing is beautiful. I cut some french fries with it the other day.

I've been poking my fingers into my stomach. I'm thinking about hammering the paring knife into my temple. I think it wouldn't hurt so much that I'd fail at it. I suppose the main thing stopping me from killing myself of late is the threat of a misfire. The last thing I would want is to somehow screw it up and be a conscious veggie. The second thing stopping me is... what is the second thing?

The second thing is the fact that suicide letters never go well. I mean no matter how well they are composed they are without fail twisted and contorted in the post mortem to whatever ends and perceptions the readers had of the writer before the writer of the suicide letter opted out of the bullshit of... what the hell am I talking about.

Case in point: nope no case in point.

I was thinking about writing a will again. I did that once a while ago.

Isn't it hilarious that a Confederacy of Dunces is sometimes painted as a rags to riches story? Am I the only one laughing about that? I mean he's dead. Seriously? You're going to paint it as a fruitful suicide? Is there such a thing? If I killed myself right now and my shit got published I wouldn't read it. Or would I? Self deprecation. Self defenstration. Is that even spelled correctly. God, I hate myself so much. I want to grab my face and just rip a piece off and eat it. Why the fuck did the Army reject me. I fucking hate them. I want to go back in time and fucking attack that son of a bitch on the bus. He was talking so much shit about cripps and bloods and gangs and fags and the least natural thing, while he threw kicks in the air and cussed and spat, was to sit and do nothing. All I wanted to do was fight him. Sure I would have lost because I'm horribly out of shape and haven't thrown a meaningful punch in months, but God damn it.... that's what I was made for. I just wanted to push him right through the wind shield. Grab his fucking nuts and rip them right off his fucking body. God damn it. Fuck Jesus. I am so angry at the fiction of heaven. I am so angry at television. I am so angry at the time that's been stolen from me. What the hell am I happy about? Maybe I'll go to jail. Was there something else? I'm considering committing myself again. I clearly do not belong here. But, the main thing. Does anyone else hear bagpipes? The main thing is. What the hell is the main thing.

There is no main idea here.

Oh wait there is.

Two things actually.

First thing is I'm going to track my last.fm on a separate bloggy thingy. Stupid. Who cares. I know. Not going down that road and don't care to argue. Second thing is every day I don't kill myself I will say why. Also silly. But it'll make me feel like less of a lazy bastard if I do. Third thing. Language. Fucking 'A' I have got to clean that up.

Fourth thing. Jesus Christ, the third Matrix was awful.

Oh yeah, fifth thing.

Kid Rock. I have distilled your song writing algorithm. See below:

America + freedom + woman who left you + freedom - meaning + horses +

nope stopped caring halfway through. Do not give a shit. Fuck you Kid Rock. Baseball was better without you. Put your fucking shirt back on. I hate you. Please die in a motorcycle accident with a cutlery truck. God damn it. Fucking fuck. Is it bad to send people Christmas gifts with your blood. I was thinking about just mailing a baggie of my blood to someone for Christmas. I almost did that once and the girl yelled at me for thinking it. Well actually I lied. I cut myself up and put the blood on paper and had it in an addressed envelope and she told me it would be the same as her mailing me her period blood so I didn't. I don't see how the two would be similar.

I don't know. I'll probably do it anyway.

Is it possible to drink to protect others from

From what.

Who is out there? There's a cat in my room. Well maybe not a cat. I don't know what the hell it is. I've been trying to break a rib to see what it feels like. Multi-fail. I'm pretty sure I punched a hole in my GI tract though. Too much coffee. It'll suck to die of sirosis. Or however the hell it's spelled.

I was going to connect with former co-workers but the half of me that knows that they wouldn't like me if they actually knew me won out so I left them alone.

Happiness is contagious, but axioms are bullshit.

I just want winter.

That's what I want.

Winter.