The Failed Suicide Note
Suicide must be the most fucked up concept in the entire world. Nothing puts “fucked up” quite as succinctly as someone taking their actual existence and voluntarily snuffing it out. Though funnily enough, I'm quite happy that the suicidal kill themselves. Fuck 'em.
There is, however, a certain type of suicidal freak that doesn't actually get on with the job of stabbing themselves twenty times in the cheek though they probably should. I'm talking about suicidal exhibitionists. People that use the idea of suicide as something romantic, something meaningful and something which highlights their suffering. You’ve never seen this? You’ve seen this. Wake the fuck up.
It occurs in public.
It has to. That’s why it never used to happen much. Suicide exhibitionism is a blazingly contemporary phenomenon, because the best a failed self-death fuckzip could come up with before the internet age was dragging a bent razor half-assedly across their wrists and lying about in a gothic pose in a bathtub surrounded by poems and flowers and waiting impatiently for someone to find them. Only a few people would ever find out they failed suicided, the highlight probably being their poor, grief-stricken parents who will forever wonder where they went so wrong as to rear a child that wanted to take their own life, all the time not realising that their child is just a melodramatic fucking imbecile that doesn’t want to really die because they’re too chickenshit and think their poetry really isn’t a slagpile of unoriginal angst. As we all know, suicide is not hard to get right. Get knife, stick knife in jugular, death occurs in approx. 45 seconds. Sort it.
As time and technology have progressed, it’s become steadily easier to broadcast the set of flash-onanism disguised as pseudo-suicide, gothic poses, poetry and black rose petals to a far wider-ranging audience than the ambulance crew, police and parents that come visit you looking like a drowned, gormless rat in a bathtub. There are blogs out there documenting the tragic life-accounts of middle-class fuckheads that think their lives are bad enough they’d rather die. Mind you, I’m not talking about people like the guy that really did kill himself live in an IRC channel*, the stupid cunt. Nor am I talking about people that frequent such social self-help channels as the #alt.suicide.bus.stop which is a fine and dandy way of trying to repair the monumental psychological damage one must’ve sustained in order to contemplate suicide and also a place I can go and talk with real suicidalists to get my kicks. What?
Anyway, I’m not talking about them – the people that genuinely need help or the people that really are killing themselves. I’m talking about the people that yack on, publicly and endlessly, about their fucked up lives and how they need to end it all and blah blah fucking blah just so they can jack off on the 2.5 comments they get saying “no you’re great and that picture you drew the other day was brilliant and didn’t look like something an incontinent spastic epileptically shat onto canvass”.
It might not involve suicide.
Weird, huh? Nope. A failed suicide note does not have to involve the actual killing of oneself. In fact, by its own definition, it requires that one does not kill themselves.
What it does require are the following:
1. A hopeless arrogance.
2. A betraying sense of worthlessness.
3. A sense of personal validation defined by external opinion.
4. An exhibitionist streak.
5. Being absolutely unable to turn your sob story into something which people would enjoy or benefit from so instead just release it as a lazy mish-mash of “woe is me” pseudo-suicidal bullshit.
EXAMPLE: The protagonist, thinking themselves brilliant, must null the betraying sense of worthlessness they have about themselves through people commenting positively on their tragic boo-hoo diary.
EXAMPLE: The protagonist, thinking themselves brilliant, must null the betraying sense of worthless they have about themselves by cutting seven lines of blood into their forehead and showing their friends & family who all coo and fuss over them.
It’s all boiling down to the same shit. It’s always a cry for help. A cry for help in the wrong direction – which is in every direction. The right direction would be to tell yourself to get off your own lazy arse and sort out your shambles of a life you fucking loser.
I normally spot these types of posts by the fact I’m trying to remove my eyeballs and chew on their optic nerves. Perhaps now you can spot them too.
And yes there are a few on LIAC. Fuckers.
* If you do follow the link through, be forewarned that reading the IRC transcript of his last moments and beyond is not for the faint-hearted and will almost definitely make you upset. He really was an idiot, though.
There is, however, a certain type of suicidal freak that doesn't actually get on with the job of stabbing themselves twenty times in the cheek though they probably should. I'm talking about suicidal exhibitionists. People that use the idea of suicide as something romantic, something meaningful and something which highlights their suffering. You’ve never seen this? You’ve seen this. Wake the fuck up.
It occurs in public.
It has to. That’s why it never used to happen much. Suicide exhibitionism is a blazingly contemporary phenomenon, because the best a failed self-death fuckzip could come up with before the internet age was dragging a bent razor half-assedly across their wrists and lying about in a gothic pose in a bathtub surrounded by poems and flowers and waiting impatiently for someone to find them. Only a few people would ever find out they failed suicided, the highlight probably being their poor, grief-stricken parents who will forever wonder where they went so wrong as to rear a child that wanted to take their own life, all the time not realising that their child is just a melodramatic fucking imbecile that doesn’t want to really die because they’re too chickenshit and think their poetry really isn’t a slagpile of unoriginal angst. As we all know, suicide is not hard to get right. Get knife, stick knife in jugular, death occurs in approx. 45 seconds. Sort it.
As time and technology have progressed, it’s become steadily easier to broadcast the set of flash-onanism disguised as pseudo-suicide, gothic poses, poetry and black rose petals to a far wider-ranging audience than the ambulance crew, police and parents that come visit you looking like a drowned, gormless rat in a bathtub. There are blogs out there documenting the tragic life-accounts of middle-class fuckheads that think their lives are bad enough they’d rather die. Mind you, I’m not talking about people like the guy that really did kill himself live in an IRC channel*, the stupid cunt. Nor am I talking about people that frequent such social self-help channels as the #alt.suicide.bus.stop which is a fine and dandy way of trying to repair the monumental psychological damage one must’ve sustained in order to contemplate suicide and also a place I can go and talk with real suicidalists to get my kicks. What?
Anyway, I’m not talking about them – the people that genuinely need help or the people that really are killing themselves. I’m talking about the people that yack on, publicly and endlessly, about their fucked up lives and how they need to end it all and blah blah fucking blah just so they can jack off on the 2.5 comments they get saying “no you’re great and that picture you drew the other day was brilliant and didn’t look like something an incontinent spastic epileptically shat onto canvass”.
It might not involve suicide.
Weird, huh? Nope. A failed suicide note does not have to involve the actual killing of oneself. In fact, by its own definition, it requires that one does not kill themselves.
What it does require are the following:
1. A hopeless arrogance.
2. A betraying sense of worthlessness.
3. A sense of personal validation defined by external opinion.
4. An exhibitionist streak.
5. Being absolutely unable to turn your sob story into something which people would enjoy or benefit from so instead just release it as a lazy mish-mash of “woe is me” pseudo-suicidal bullshit.
EXAMPLE: The protagonist, thinking themselves brilliant, must null the betraying sense of worthlessness they have about themselves through people commenting positively on their tragic boo-hoo diary.
EXAMPLE: The protagonist, thinking themselves brilliant, must null the betraying sense of worthless they have about themselves by cutting seven lines of blood into their forehead and showing their friends & family who all coo and fuss over them.
It’s all boiling down to the same shit. It’s always a cry for help. A cry for help in the wrong direction – which is in every direction. The right direction would be to tell yourself to get off your own lazy arse and sort out your shambles of a life you fucking loser.
I normally spot these types of posts by the fact I’m trying to remove my eyeballs and chew on their optic nerves. Perhaps now you can spot them too.
And yes there are a few on LIAC. Fuckers.
* If you do follow the link through, be forewarned that reading the IRC transcript of his last moments and beyond is not for the faint-hearted and will almost definitely make you upset. He really was an idiot, though.
posted by Juliet is Bleeding... | 10:25 pm
I'm sure most people wonder why I'm so cruel on the internet, and I can safely say it's due to the failed suicides.
People like this make me want to nuke the whole iternet, JUST so I don't have to hear mindless chit-chat about how much their life sucks.
Bravo JIB, you've succeeded again at writing a post that will ultimately fly over every single-fucked-up head of the people you intended it for.
May I recommend the Indelicates excellent waxing Waiting for Pete Doherty to die?
good writing