When I was a kid I’d pray for cancer. God answered by giving me mediocrity. Which, after careful thought, I’ve come to realize is far worse. With cancer you get sympathy, you get noticed and you lose a few pounds. Mediocrity gets you shit. No one pays attention to average. Leaders of men aren’t average. Celebrities aren’t your next-door neighbors and CEOs don’t graduate state school with a 3.0 GPA. Mediocrity is life commuting to and from your shitty little trailer in your shitty little four-door sedan that gets good gas mileage. Mediocrity gets you nothing but unfulfilled daydreams, jobs you hate and passionless relationships. Which is why right now, at this moment, I’m about to chase 27 OxyCotin with a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label.
Yeah, I’m a pussy, I know. But you know what? Pills don’t hurt. And they won’t preclude the open casket thing, or freak out the girlfriend. Well, at least not as much as swallowing a mouthful of buck shot.
So here I am, bottle of OxyCotin in one hand, three fingers of Blue Label in the other, staring at the bathroom mirror and into the dull gray eyes of someone who won’t be here this time tomorrow.
My mind is…
I wonder how bloated I’ll be when they find me?
As I was saying, my mind is clear and my conviction unwavering.
Do I shit myself as I die or right after?
Focus, asshole.
When I was a teenager there was a span of months where it seemed like some dipshit was offing themselves every other week. You had all these poor fucks hanging and shooting and stabbing themselves and not a single one was considerate enough to leave a note. Like leaving everyone hanging was kosher. We wanted answers you pricks. We wanted to know what was so fucking tragic that suicide was the only option.
As if answers would’ve made everything better.
Or put Jane’s head back together.
The counselors said that the victims were depressed and that the minds’ of the deeply depressed are complicated to understand. I asked one of them what the fuck was there to be depressed about in high school. So you get made fun of, so your girlfriend dumps you, so you get a shitty perm? Big fucking deal. It’s just high school, not like it lasts forever. The counselor said that I wasn’t being very empathetic. She said that for some of these kids this was the only answer they could think of- that death was the only way they’d ever find happiness.
Pretty Goddamn selfish if you ask me, is what I told her, life never gets that bad.
She agreed.
But what I didn’t know then was that for most of those kids it wasn’t a matter of if they’d kill themselves, just a matter of when.
18, 28 or 50, doesn’t matter. If you’re gonna do it, you’re gonna do it- it’s in your genetic code or something. A switch flips and you know it’s time. It just might take a while to follow through.
I suppose it’s funny to think that after my harsh judgments of my former classmates I’d be in the position I am now. I’m a hypocritical bastard aren’t I? You don’t have to answer, I know I am. I’m cool with it. The thing is now I know where they were coming from. Now I see what they meant about finding happiness.
It’s selfish.
It’s callous.
It’s inevitable.
And I’m okay with that.
Preparations have been made. I signed up for online bill payments, I made sure the last time I spoke to close friends and family I ended the conversation with some form of sincerity and, more important, I’ve made sure that Liz, my girlfriend, is out of town.
Eventhough I hate clichés, I’ve decided to leave a note. I didn’t want to at first, I mean what’s there to say? Nothing will make what I’m about to do okay. But, because I know how much I hate the unknown, I feel like I owe them an explanation. I left it on the coffee table with a Post-It telling Liz to not come in the bedroom and instead call the paramedics. But knowing her, she’ll come in anyway. I’ll probably manage to piss her off for dying in the bed we’ve slept in for the last few years. I know I’d be pissed. Beds are expensive.
I take a drink of my Blue Label and glance over the instructions I downloaded, you can find everything on the internet, they specify chasing the pills with an Everclear, OJ, and rubbing alcohol cocktail, but that seems like overkill and I can’t fathom choking that shit down. Besides it’s not everyday that I kill myself, which is why I splurged and bought the good shit.
Having never attempted suicide I’m feeling a bit nervous. Knowing me, I’ll somehow manage to mess up and turn myself into a vegetable. I take a look at the 27 pills and question at what point the first few will start working and how subtle or strong the effects will be. The experts say I’ll simply fall asleep and that’ll be it. I look up at my reflection one more time, steady my nerves, take another drink and pop pills one and two.
Continuing to stare at the vacant face in front of me I try to work myself into an angry, vengeful frenzy to justify my actions. I think back to all the wrongs that have been done to me, all the fuck-ups, let downs, and broken promises.
Cut to the boy abandoned by his father.
Cut to the teacher who said he needed special attention, and the older brother who was too weak to defend him.
Cut to the unrealistic expectations.
I look into the face of a loser incapable of realizing his potential, a man unable to find his place or passion, a man resigned to living an armchair life bouncing from one empty endeavor to another.
Popping pills three and four I sneer at the pathetic fuck with the knowledge that in the time it takes to drive to Wal*Mart and back his ass will be dead and bloated.
I hope God isn’t Catholic.
I’m losing track of time. Who knows how many pills I’ve taken? Looking down I’m confused to see that there are still quite a few left on the counter, so I take another drink of scotch. Things are just starting to get interesting. I’ve got to blink widely to focus and my mouth tastes like dirt. I almost fall over.
Pill five won’t go down. It’s stuck in the back of my throat and hurts like a bitch. Another shot of scotch won’t move it nor will a violent cough. I try to stick the tip of my tongue back there and instead wind up almost swallowing it. Finally in desperation I ram my middle finger down my throat. I fish around and almost gag, but I feel it, so I press on. Then it moves, and as I’m about to thank God for my good luck I puke all over the place. Then I puke again. Then I pass out.
