Comfortable and Furious



There is an irony present in the concept of suicide that should be cause for amusement regardless of the reason for such impulses; namely, that it is far more difficult to actually kill yourself than you would think. A great deal of effort must go into ensuring cardiac arrest for a long enough period to achieve brain death, as those successful at doing so would attest. The problem is skipping entirely over the gray area enroute to death where a pesky citizen or ambulance crew will go through the trouble of reviving you in time to leave you with a tracheostomy and feeding tube to join a vast vegetable garden. You need to make sure that death is guaranteed, requiring full commitment to the task, with no chance of interference or survival. Woe to those who actually try to jump halfway off a cliff, because having your ass wiped for an eternity is far worse than death, though preferable to some of the methods we use to waste time in life.


So the question is, how do you jump in with both feet? Some would say a gun is a lock, but do a search for ‘suicide attempts’, and have a nice long look at the army of zombies undergoing reconstructive surgery who thought the same. Bullets can ricochet off the skull, frappe redundant brain matter without causing death, shatter the spinal cord while leaving the brain and major vessels intact, and you wake up in agony months later wondering what that tube is doing in your airway. A shotgun can cleanly shear off the face without penetrating the brain case, so fuck that noise if it crosses your mind. The point being, you would be surprised at how often point blank shots fail to work. Stabbing yourself is idiotic at best and humiliating at worst. Just bear in mind how many times you will need to repeat your pathetic story to psychiatrists and counselors before doing something stupid. Pills are for those painfully weak cries of help, and hold the greatest risk for causing irreparable harm without actually killing you. If you grab bottles at random, you will be stuck in an intensive care unit for a few days before a shrink shows up to frown at you for the first of a hundred times. Even if you take medications that are actually lethal, the chance that you will take the right stuff is pretty small, and if you mix stuff, you will end up taking drugs with their antidotes, like drinking antifreeze with vodka. Don’t bother with overdoses unless you are starved for attention.

So the likely best route is to go with the big guns – either jump off a building or use a big fuck-off explosive. A giant drum of fertilizer might do the trick, but the trouble with booming things is that if you don’t know what you are doing (and if you are truly suicidal you are not likely to study the subject in lasting detail), you will more likely blow off your hand. This is both painful and inconvenient as you will probably need to learn how to masturbate with your non-dominant hand. Which leaves us with jumping. The taller the building the better, and it would best be a building, as a mountain drop could involve falling against a steep incline and tumbling into a broken heap. Starving to death over the course of a week is pretty low on a list for ideal ways to depart this world. Buildings afford the advantage of a straight drop. There is always the chance you will survive even massive plummets, so combining this with an overdose may end up being most effective. The final (huh) advantage of taking the vertical staircase is that you cannot change your mind, and the time to issue any regrets is mercifully brief. The biggest disadvantage is that the last thing running through your mind will likely be the last film you saw, so if you spent your lunch money on a movie about dull, creepy, pretty assholes, then I would advise you to charge up on something by Max Ophuls or Francois Truffaut.