Category Archives: Suicide Note

MY BIRTHDAY PARTY IS FUCKING RUINED!

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My birthday party is fuh-king ruined. Period. UGH! What don’t you understand about that? I wish I had never been born. I wish I had been aborted. I wish “Karen” , if that’s even her real name, would have just pooped me out of her sweaty vag right down the toilet and flushed me into oblivion. Into that sarlacc pit of nothingness. That’s how FUCKED my birthday is. period.

You know, you only turn 16 once and you want it to be special. It’s supposed to be the one day in your whole life where everything goes perfect. Everybody is supposed to make you the center of attention. Everybody is supposed to buy you presents. You’re supposed to get a Range Rover and MTV is supposed to video tape you doing doughnuts in the parking lot, while you blast Black Eyed Peas so loud that cum balls squirt out your nose hole. That’s how loud the Black Eyed Peas are supposed to be, loud enough to defy rational anatomical functions. Shooting jizz rockets out your nostril? Shit’s straight retarded, Black Eyed Peas style. That’s what sweet 16 is supposed to be about. It’s supposed to be the first day of the rest of your life. It’s the moment when a girl blossoms into womanhood and lets the cutest boy in school (Gunter Slugsworth) put his thumb in her plum pudding.

The only thing I REALLY needed for my super sweet 16 was an iron-casted replica of Draco Malfoy’s cock-muscle. I wanted to see the look on Liz’s face when she came over for Harry-themed Trivial Pursuit night and I had that thing sitting on my mantle, glistening in the J.K. Rowling approved candlelight, staring her right in her stupid puffy-nippled tits. She thought she was soooo bitchin’ when she brought over the HP collection on Blu-Ray, even though the only reason her Dad bought that for her was because he was cheating on her Mom with Coach Terri, the assistant women’s softball coach, and felt like a total dickwad after she drowned herself in the baby pool in their front lawn on Valentine’s Day. I mean don’t me wrong or whatever, I like Harry and all but I would rather have my mom not be dead. Plus that baby pool is practically ruined now. UGH!

All I wanted was a Twilight themed blood fountain but noooo. Gurgling and spewing that sweet red sauce for everybody’s sipping pleasure. Daddy said he couldn’t get the hospital to agree to shipping 7 gallons of human blood to our house. Total fucking bullshit! Last time I checked, the hospital doesn’t have a monopoly on blood. And I’m not picky, I had Dad even go down to the vet and see if we could just drain our own blood from the pile of dogs that they had put down that day, but the people at the vet are homo’s and said they would “call the cops” if he didn’t “leave the premises.”

And then Tiff shows up with her new haircut with cropped bangs. She god damn knows cropped bangs are my thing! I pioneered cropped bangs in September. I Thomas Edison’ed that shit. I Steve Jobs’ed cropped bangs back when she still had those silly fucking leg braces. She fucking Billy-boy Gates’ed that shit like a poseur supreme. It’s like she is deliberately trying to sabotage my look. She’s going to ruin it because cropped bangs don’t look good on fat girls who can’t walk straight.

And I specifically asked for a sushi bar with a real Chinese person, so I could look sophisticated and Asiatic. But noooo, apparently the Japs are better at making sushi than the Chinese. If I wanted my super sweet 16 to turn into Pearl Harbor, I would’ve invited mole-faced Cuba Gooding III and told him to bring his dad.

Plus, this queso dip tastes like the back of Rosie O’Donnell’s knees.

Worst. Birthday. Ever.

The Urge to Kill Myself

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Sometimes I get the strong urge to kill myself. Not because I’m depressed or mentally unstable or my life sucks or anything like that. It’s just because I’m lazy. Some days, it seems like it would just be easier to kill myself than to get up at be at work by 9:00 and pretend to be returning emails for 3 hours while I google news articles about domesticated animals attacking their owners. Like, some days I would rather just kill myself than have to go to Dillard’s to buy a new pantsuit because I left my Uniball in the pocket when I washed them and it bled everywhere. Tom from Accounting was like “Anyone ever heard of pocket protector?”  And I was like “Fuck you Tom. The last thing I need is for you to give me shit right now. I have enough going on. Mr. Peterson has been up my ass lately about these M-93′s and I would seriously rather kill myself than sit here and listen to your bullshit. Plus, a pocket protector wouldn’t stop me from washing my pen, you cleft-lipped faggot.” Then he whispered something to Pudding Dickenson in the cubicle next to me. That really burned me up. I’ve had a super-mega-huge crush on Pud ever since I started working here. I know that he’s engaged and I’ve actually met his fiancé Sharon, who is a really nice lady. Too nice if you ask me. Seems like she’s hiding something. Just saying. I’m not saying I would do anything to break them up. I don’t want to complicate me and Pud’s relationship like that. He just gets me. Ya know?

Listen to me! I’m sorry. Back to the topic at hand. Sometimes I would prefer to just off myself than deal with all that jiz-unk. Like, I would rather kill myself than have to call the guy to come fix my garbage disposal, then wait around for him to show up to fix the garbage disposal, and then maintain small talk with him until he’s finished fixing my garbage disposal. Uuuuuuuuuuugggggggh! That’s the sound I make when I get the urge to kill myself. Gotta wash my clothes? Uuugh. Gotta put air in my tires? Uuugh. Gotta go around getting my neighbors to sign these sexual predator forms? Uuugh. I honestly would rather end it all. I have this feeling almost every time I have to do something I don’t want to do.

This often leads me to think, how would I choose to kill myself? Obviously I would lean towards something that doesn’t require a lot of energy or set up. I would rather kill myself than have to set up some elaborate means of commiting suicide. I want something quick and easy. I’m not trying to make any big statement or anything and I don’t have time to set up some Rube Goldberg suicide machine, where I get my shirt ironed, an egg fried, my ficus watered, and dozen poison darts fired at my face. I think one of the best ways to kill myself would be to let a domesticated animal kill me. I’ve done a lot research on the google and found that it has several distinct advantages:

1) It’s effortless. All you have to do is hold still. Just let your domesticated animal do all the work, whether it is a chimp, elephant, pitbull, or whatever. It doesn’t get any easier than that, unless you choose to starve yourself to death but that takes such a long time. You’ll end up just sitting around for days waiting for it to kick in. And as far as I’m concerned, I would rather kill myself than have to wait on myself to starve to death. Whereas with the domesticated animal route, it could take as long as a couple seconds.

2) No clean up. Especially if you are working with a domesticated tiger or something. Chances are, if you give them enough time, they will eat you entirely. In fact, they will buff and polish the floor with their sandpapery cat tongues to get every last bit of your tasty remains. Considering that people don’t prefer to buy the apartment where some guy was just mauled and devoured by an animal, the shiny floors might actually help the resale value.

3) Circle of life, bro. It’s mother fucking nature. And I, myself, am I huge Elton John fan, so I would consider this kind of a dedication to his songwriting. You guys remember that scene in Almost Famous when they sing Benny and The Jets in the airplane? Classic.

Ugh, I don’t feel like writing anymore. I would rather kill myself than keep writing this blog piece. Seriously.

My First Suicide Note

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The following is a copy of my first suicide note from April 24, 2007. That was a really dark time in my life, 2007, like Omar from The Wire dark. But my analyst, Dr. Werner Lipschwitz says that it would be good for me to share my experience. Ya know, for catharsis. And since it’s the holiday season it seemed fitting.

Dear Cruel Cunt World,

When are the Cranberries going to come out with another fucking album already?!? Seriously. I get it, you’re on hiatus and want to pursue side projects. That’s fine. I’m sure that’s some great stuff or whatever but don’t neglect the fans that made you who you are. Fans like me. Jerry from Printing is also into “The Sauce.” Give us the real stuff: The Cranberries. Zombie. Linger. All the hits. Shit’s so awesome.

I mean, it’s 2007. They have cameras on phones now.Let’s get that new-new Cran-Cran. Fa really doe. Gotsta has it.

God. Fuck it. I can’t do this anymore. The Cranberries are never going to make a new album. I’m going to off myself. I’m going to off myself so fucking hard.

Love,

Pudding Dickenson

Obviously this suicide attempt was unsuccessful. But, not to fret, because it wouldn’t be my last. Heck, I eat a bottle of my gandmother’s prescription painkillers that she had for her bad knee every time they leave pickles on my chicken sammich from the Chik-Fil-A, when I said clear as day “if there are any goddamn pickles on my motherfucking chicken sammy, I will cut your fucking dick off, shove it in my mouth,  and then put a loaded shotgun to my forehead.”

Lipschwitz was right on the money. That felt pretty good.