suicide_note yummychuckle like writing suicide notes. They are pretty therapeutic. Maybe in the wrong way at times. I used to have a copy of kurt_cobain 's 'suicide note' in my room...Right now I'm actually listening to a clip on napster of courtney love (bitch) reading his 'suicide note' to a bunch of people. and she was like "he's such an asshole. everybody say asshole." straaaannnge. anyways point is... if/when i commit suicide, if i left a note, which i would, I'd make it as short as possible. and it would end up being about ten pages long. I'm still trying to perfect the note. oh, and in no way is kurt's 'suicide' affecting my own contemplations cus..w.ell i don't think he commit suicide--i think it was homicide. kinda. 010602 ... hey thats pretty good doc "what is the note gonna say, huh? 'life is bullshit, i can't fuckin' take it anymore Signed The Dead Guy'? 010603 ... flo how about everybody was really mean to me, they didn't understand that i was special. the dead guy.xx 010603 ... Sol sorry guys I was bored of you the one whos left blood etc. on the floor 010603 ... Chambers Sucide is just a fact of some peoples lives. It ain't right to judge someone who commits suicide as being self absorbed. You don't need to judge that or even need to think about it because it's so blindingly obvious. There is an alternative to suicide, one which is just effective, and also means you can stilly try new kinds of peanut butter on account of not being dead. Disappear. 010604 ... florescent light Only between 12-34 percent of suicides leave notes. Actual suicide notes: "Dear Bill: I am sorry for causing you so much trouble. I really didn't want to and if you would have told me at the first time the truth probably both of us would be very happy now. Bill I am sorry but I can't take this life anymore, I don't think there is any goodness in the world. I love you very very much and I want you to be as happy in your life as I wanted to make you. Tell your parents I am very sorry and please if you can do it don't ever let my parents know what happened. Please don't hate me Bill, I love you. -Mary" (Leenaars, 1991) "Cathy I love you. You're right, I am crazy...and thank you for trying to love me. Phil" (Wallace, 1981, p.79) Not a note-but an experiance: "I was so desperate. I felt, my God, I couldn't face this thing. Everything was like a terrible whirlpool of confusion. And I thought to myself: There's only one thing to do. I just have to lose consciousness. That's the only way to get away from it. The only way to lose consciousness, I thought, was to jump off something good and high." (Shneidman, 1987, p. 56) "I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone polls, threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three...nineteen poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth." -Sylvia Plath 010604 ... Chambers Where did you get these? Is there a web site or something of them? If so, can you give the URL, I'd be interested to check it out. 010604 ... floresent light Fascinating, isn't it? I took those out of my Abnormal Psychology book. I, too, would be interested in finding a book or web site designated solely to suicide notes, etc. 010604 ... Chambers It's like a windo into someone's head isn't it? Their last thoughts before they jump. Sometimes their actions are justified, ie: "I am so upset the my testicles got shot off in Nam" Sometimes they are not, ie: "The Dow Jones has fallen 35 points. I don't feel like going to work tomorrow.". Either way, these windows are very interesting. 010604 ... florescent light "I am now the most miserable man living. If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family, there would be not one cheerful face on earth." -Abraham Lincoln 010604 ... mmm http://suez-cide.tripod.com/ and http://www.geocities.com/CapitolHill/2150/Note.html was kinda funny.. i guess.. 010604 ... )-( Fuck you, Everybody! Goodnight! 011007 ... Casey I used to write them, but then some kid broke into my bookbag and took it out and showed the principal. That was the worst week of my life. 011007 ... Virginia Woolf 'Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that - everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.' 011204 ... Grievance I once noted, when I was thinking about suicide, one of the very few times in my life.... that if I was going to kill myself, I would first spread out a tarp so noone would have to clean up the blood, or buy new carpet. And, I was going to do it by seppuku. I felt that worthless, the blood of my suicide wasn't even worthy of staining the spot of my self defeat. 011204 ... Anne Sexton Wanting to Die Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. Then the almost unnameable lust returns. Even then I have nothing against life. I know well the grass blades you mention, the furniture you have placed under the sun. But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic. In this way, heavy and thoughtful, warmer than oil or water, I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole. I did not think of my body at needle point. Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone. Suicides have already betrayed the body. Still-born, they don't always die, but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet that even children would look on and smile. To thrust all that life under your tongue!-- that, all by itself, becomes a passion. Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say, and yet she waits for me, year after year, to so delicately undo an old wound, to empty my breath from its bad prison. Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon, leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss, leaving the page of the book carelessly open, something unsaid, the phone off the hook and the love, whatever it was, an infection. 011204 ... carne de metal "I told you to put blanks in the goddam gun; thanks a lot." 020216 ... Effingham Fish "All this buttoning and unbuttoning." 020216 ... Anne Sexton "You speak to me of narcissism but I reply that it is a matter of my life" - Artaud "At this time let me somehow bequeath all the leftovers to my daughters and their daughters" - Anonymous Better, despite the worms talking to the mare's hoof in the field; better, despite the season of young girls dropping their blood; better somehow to drop myself quickly into an old room. Better (someone said) not to be born and far better not to be born twice at thirteen where the boardinghouse, each year a bedroom, caught fire. Dear friend, I will have to sink with hundreds of others on a dumbwaiter into hell. I will be a light thing. I will enter death like someone's lost optical lens. Life is half enlarged. The fish and owls are fierce today. Life tilts backward and forward. Even the wasps cannot find my eyes. Yes, eyes that were immediate once. Eyes that have been truly awake, eyes that told the whole story— poor dumb animals. Eyes that were pierced, little nail heads, light blue gunshots. And once with a mouth like a cup, clay colored or blood colored, open like the breakwater for the lost ocean and open like the noose for the first head. Once upon a time my hunger was for Jesus. O my hunger! My hunger! Before he grew old he rode calmly into Jerusalem in search of death. This time I certainly do not ask for understanding and yet I hope everyone else will turn their heads when an unrehearsed fish jumps on the surface of Echo Lake; when moonlight, its bass note turned up loud, hurts some building in Boston, when the truly beautiful lie together. I think of this, surely, and would think of it far longer if I were not… if I were not at that old fire. I could admit that I am only a coward crying me me me and not mention the little gnats, the moths, forced by circumstance to suck on the electric bulb. But surely you know that everyone has a death, his own death, waiting for him. So I will go now without old age or disease, wildly but accurately, knowing my best route, carried by that toy donkey I rode all these years, never asking, “Where are we going?” We were riding (if I'd only known) to this. Dear friend, please do not think that I visualize guitars playing or my father arching his bone. I do not even expect my mother's mouth. I know that I have died before— once in November, once in June. How strange to choose June again, so concrete with its green breasts and bellies. Of course guitars will not play! The snakes will certainly not notice. New_York_City will not mind. At night the bats will beat on the trees, knowing it all, seeing what they sensed all day. 031028 ... two steps short the tragedy of suicide notes, is that they can never adequately sum up what a person felt, only the sliver of harsh unreason that thrust them to the edge 050219 ... lux too_little_too_late 110907 ... m , 150401 what's it to you? who go blather from