Workday blues

Well I’m at work right now, and feeling suicidal. This will be a recurring theme on this blog, I’ll just warn you.

How serious am I when I say I’m suicidal? Hell if I know. I mean, I don’t know if I’d actually do anything. Occasionally, I’ll go online to look at guns, wondering which would be best for blowing my brains out. Actually, I know the answer to that: A 12-gauge shotgun. But that would be a bitch to use. Unless you’ve got a sawed-off snake charmer, you have to deal with the long barrel. That means you have to find a way to prop it against something while you place the barrel in your mouth, then figure out a way to reach the trigger — most people use their toes, from what I understand. It sounds so undignified.

So, a handgun, then. But what caliber? I know some people kill themselves with a .22, but I’d be worried that wouldn’t get the job done and I’d just end up a pathetic vegetable. So something bigger, then — a .45 ACP ought to do the trick, but I figure, to be on the safe side, I’d want to go with a .44 Magnum. Hollow-point bullet, I guess — I don’t know, would a jacketed round be better? I’d think a hollow-point would be more likely to do serious damage and thus kill you, but what do I know?

Of course nothing can guarantee you’ll be successful. People survive all sorts of horrific wounds. The last thing I want to do is become a helpless vegetable, or blow my face off or something. But I’ll do my damnedest to make sure I do it right.

Again, I don’t know how serious I am. I’ve never actually gotten close to going to the store and buying a gun. I’m actually scared to have guns around, even though I grew up with them, because I’m afraid if I had a gun handy I might do something rash during one of my lowest moments. So that probably indicates I’m not that serious.

Instead of thinking about killing myself, I spend most of my time wishing I could contract some awful terminal disease, one that would hopefully kill me in six months. We are all supposed to feel sorry for people who have terminal cancer and whatnot, but when I read or hear about them, all I can find myself feeling is envy.

I mean, I don’t have a wife or kids. Nobody really depends on me other than my dog, and she can always go live with my mom. I don’t feel like I’m a particularly valuable person in the larger scheme of things. I contribute nothing. My job is unimportant, and it’s unlikely to get better. In the strict Darwinian sense, I’m genetic garbage, a waste of resources.

Dying seems like it would come as a great relief. When I look ahead, all I can see in the coming years is hardship and misery. I might be able to endure that if I felt like I had some sort of worth, but I don’t. What in the hell do I add to the sum total of humanity? Being told “you’re going to die in six months” would make me happy beyond words. All the burdens would be lifted. I would not HAVE to worry about where my life will be a year from now, ten years from now, thirty years from now. I wouldn’t have to worry because I wouldn’t be around then. So who the hell cares?

I don’t know about the afterlife. Is there a Heaven or a Hell? And which one would I end up in? I guess a have a lingering fear of Hell and a lingering hope of Heaven, but I assume that dying will be a lot like just going to sleep. Sleep is, right now, the only escape I have that doesn’t involve alcohol. Going to sleep forever doesn’t sound that bad.