Lyrics

I think I'm going to kill myself today. I know that sounds rash, but I've been turning it over in my head all morning and now it just seems like I'd be foolish to not stick my head in an oven (I haven't yet decided on the method of how I'll go. The oven is just a place holder for now.). Since I woke up today, I've been compiling a list of all the sound and logical reasons to not wake up tomorrow, and I must say, the evidence against my case for continuing to breathe is rather convincing. First of all, it is a Tuesday. This realization came upon me immediately this morning because (a) it is in fact Terrible Twosday on the morning show I watch (This is when families come on and talk about all the crazy shit their toddlers have done. It isn't as funny as you might think.), and (b) yesterday was Monday. I've always felt that Tuesday was the saddest day of the week, which is why I've always thought it was odd that the depressed little girl on The Addam's Family was named Wednesday. See, everyone hates Mondays and everyone loves Fridays. Some people claim to not follow this blueprint. Those people are liars. They just want to feel like they're separating themselves from the pack with their differing opinions. Face it; Mondays are awful and Fridays are not-so-awful. Most people are somewhat fond of Thursdays as they are almost Fridays, and Wednesday always seems to play host to the best primetime TV, but Tuesday has nothing. It is a forgotten day, and I feel like if I were Tuesday, I'd rather be hated like Monday than entirely forgotten. We all want to be remembered for something, even if that something isn't all that great, like primetime TV on Wednesdays or church on Sundays. This isn't just any Tuesday either. Today is Tuesday the 12th, which means that my bills are due at the end of this week, and, although I have never actually tried this before, I feel like being dead is an acceptable excuse for not paying them. Only a heartless bastard would charge rent to a corpse and my landlady has always been rather nice, which is why I have decided against shooting myself. She would have to repaint all of the walls before a new tenant could move in and I don't want to cost her the expense of all that interior paint. I have not been looking forward to paying my cell phone bill this month. I've gone way over my allotted minutes as was recommended to me in a self-help article I found called "Eat Better. Sleep More. Beat Depression." Although it didn't specifically state that I should use up all of my airtime, I feel like it was implied, which is why I'm also starting to suspect that the cell phone industry secretly sponsored the article. See, it said I should be getting more sleep and so I have been going to bed at exactly nine o'clock, and admittedly, falling asleep this early was, at first, a daunting task, but I recently discovered my love-affair with Nyquil and this problem has since dissipated. Now, this is where the issue with my phone begins. Being in bed at nine means I lose the opportunity to take advantage of my free nights, which in turns means that instead of spending all night on the phone calling all of the lonely people I know will talk to me for as long as I so desire, I have to spend the daytime calling all of the lonely people I know will talk to me for as long as I so desire, which is, in fact, murder on my anytime minutes. The same article from the subway also recommended that I start eating better which is why I'm sure that if the paper wasn't sponsored by cell phone corporations, then it must be sponsored by the food industry, because, as it turns out, eating healthy is decidedly more expensive than eating shit. I discovered this by wandering into an organic grocery and doing my weekly shopping there. I usually go shopping every week, but this food has lasted an extra few days because most of it tastes strikingly similar to chalk and has curbed my desire to ingest it. Maybe this is why it costs more. This is all important to note because today, after preparing myself a somewhat chalky breakfast, I am officially out of organic food, meaning I would need to go purchase more. This is a dilemma because, as I mentioned earlier, this food is both very expensive and very disgusting, and I would prefer to not have to purchase more of it. However, the article from the subway insisted that if I don't eat well, I will be depressed and I don't want to be depressed. Caught between a rock and a hard place, I've come to realize that dead people don't need to eat so I would escape another awful week and two days of health food. This is also very convenient because with an empty fridge, my family won't have to clean up any spoiled food products while sorting my affairs. That is, unless condiments spoil, in which case there would be bad mustard, jelly and lemon juice. Mental note: throw out condiments. As I got out of bed today, I came to discover a tear in the crotch of my favorite (and only) pair of sweatpants. I have since been having a series of paranoid episodes in which I envision all of the embarrassing things that this tear could lead to because I'm sure that, if looked at from the correct angle, the tear would aptly display my penis to the world. The worst of these nightmare scenarios came when I realized that there are often small children that ride the bus into town with me. These children pose a series of threats. As I have learned from watching Terrible Twosday, toddlers have very little, if any, tact. If one were to catch my sweatpants from the right trajectory, a debacle would ensue. They would loudly announce to the public that they had seen my private business. This would cause an immediate uproar on the bus. I would be severely embarrassed, but that would soon be the very least of my problems. Eventually, a member of the disgusted crowd would yell out that I was purposefully exposing myself to children, which is just not true. However, the mob mentality would take over and by the time the bus stopped, the police would be waiting to take me to prison where I would sit in despair and await my sentencing, which will most likely be death by lethal injection because I don't think they still do the electric chair in this state. While I don't necessarily want to live, I'd prefer to die with some dignity, which brings up the point that I should probably change into jeans or slacks before offing myself. Being found dead in sweatpants is one thing, but being found dead in sweatpants with a hole in the crotch? I'd also like to note that even my favorite forms of media have cast their votes against my continuing existence. I've spent the last few weeks listening to almost nothing but this punk rock band that shall remain nameless. Their songs are upbeat and hopeful and lyrics give me a small sense of perseverance. This morning, I awoke to the announcement that the band broke up. The issued statement from the singer read something to the effect of (and I'm paraphrasing this so don't quote me here), "It's hard to keep singing songs about being positive when you don't believe the words that are coming out of your mouth anymore." If that isn't a sign I don't know what is. I've been reading excerpts from Charles Bukowski's appropriately titled collection of poetry "You Get so Alone Sometimes it just makes Sense," in which he writes about the hopelessness of the human condition. There's a poem that I find particularly interesting called "Beasts Bounding through Time." In said poem, he lists a series of great writers and poets and authors and humans and discusses all of their lowest moments ("Van Gogh writing his brother for paints/ Hemingway testing his shotgun"). He keeps repeating the phrase "the impossibility of being human." I read his biography once, and his grave stone includes his name, dates of birth and death and the simple and direct quote "Don't Try." Mental note: Write Bukowski's descendents a thank you letter for the advice. You see, all of this, coupled with the all-encompassing and violent feeling of despair that leaves me waking up every morning saying "Really life? Again?" has me out of options and I know, I know, "there's always light at the end of the tunnel," but I don't have the patience to wait for someone to turn it on. So, Universe, unless you've got a match that I can borrow, you'll have to excuse me, because Tuesday is winding down, and if I don't find the most efficient way to kill myself by 9 o'clock, then I'll have to go to bed, and if I have to go to bed, then, I'll have to wake up tomorrow, and I can't kill myself on a Wednesday because I have to see what happens on Prime Time TV. Then, it'll be Thursday and they aren't all that bad, and I can't kill myself on the weekend because it'll ruin everyone's fun and they work hard all week and deserve a break. By this time, it'll be Monday and I have to be around Monday to hate the day with every other rational member of society. At this juncture, I will have had to have purchased more over-priced and under-flavored groceries and I won't be able to choke them all down by Tuesday, so the whole cycle will start over again. Nope, it has to be today. It could be months before an opportunity like this presents itself again.