Celebrating Life, Death and Peace
I was never great at problem solving.
What do you do when you've lived your life and survived? A soldier with many many wounds that'll never heal.
Do you procure a pistol and, finally, write your final chapter? After the ending of the story you type, in caps, THE END? Where would you shoot yourself? If so, how do you do it? Point at your temple? Your throat--Tomorrow?
Your arms are not long enough to hold a shotgun. Also, you don't own a shotgun.
There are many variables in something you've seen perfectly executed thousands of times, in films. In movies, most of the time, when people get killed they get killed with a bullet. Pills are for the wealthy. In the film, wealthy people are poor.
You have bleach. You also have a box of razor blades you bought twenty years ago, at Flax, Fort Mason Center. Additionally, you have a very sharp chef's knife. But the knife was a birthday gift so it seems disrespectful to use it to slit your wrists. Plus, wrist slitting seems like an acute challenge and you've never been good with details.
It's a method of problem solving. It's a process of a set of rules. It's Wikipedia. They trick you. They teach you how to multiply numbers. They tell you that x=0. But they never call it a language or reveal that zero means nothing.
What you want to do is you want to put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. Die in the bathtub, or maybe a field of gravel. Surrounded by blood: trickling, splattering, dripping. Sticky hair, messy. But not too messy—the whole point is to die with as little mess as possible, hence the bathtub. But a field doesn't require the heartache of cleanup. Death is nature. Natural. Earthy. Dirty.
