Monday, January 21, 2008

To All the Suicides (on Blue Monday)

I awoke this morning with methods of suicide dancing in my brain. Initially I was concerned for the health of my psyche, but then it dawned on me: Ah, of course, it is Blue Monday--the most depressing day of the year as indicated by the number of suicides (though I'm sure a few blessed souls killed themselves out of sheer joy). I pranced downstairs wondering "razorblades or pills?" but just then I was struck by a wind of ennui that made me languish in utter suicidal impotence. I spent the day rubbing myself against the bearskin rug while watching "The View" and "Oprah."

I do not feel good about myself. I am quite used to filthiness, but not the smiling, self-help kind. It was not like a drug I could just puke out into the mirroring water of my toilet--indeed, I want to watch more episodes tomorrow...

(Perhaps I am the vomit and the television is the toilet in which I twirl. Or perhaps I am just a failed poet looking for connections in a disconnected world...)

(I want to smash Clay Aiken's skull with a bone, but yet I want to see his performance, too. These are sick, perverted times. And yet not sick and perverted in a good way--what ever happened to simple animal-evil? Now we have this vacuous evil that society sees as a virtue, necessary for success).

I am full of digressions because I am lacking in proper thought. There is a death-chill in the air. I am dying for a walk in the woods culminating with a primal scream atop a lookout point. But nature has trapped me inside and I do not even have a gas oven in which to stick my head.

I am full of hot air with no room to expand.

It is a failure of a Blue Monday... Suicides: you are more motivated than I.

Requiescat in pace.


Nigel Tewksbury said...

Oh my Aiken head!

mariusandrejevas said...

We're human garbage,
thrown into the trash compactor.
Rib cages breaking,
ignored pleading.

Anonymous said...

I too woke up with a thirst for self killing this Monday past. The cyber bullying has taken its toll I'm afraid. When I made veiled references, I was only encouraged. I thought that my suicide must be grand to be didactic! I could launch myself from an aeroplane. I could fly to Mozambique for glorious unprotected sex. Then I settled on the stalwart shotgun wound to the head. But where is this academic to find such a machine on short notice? In the end I just masturbated to the sunrise. Sigh, I hope next Monday more closely resembles a Cyan.

Marius, do control your petulant angst you angry little man. Perhaps you should form a heavy metal band and write contrived lyrics with clever titles like Seasons in the Abyss. Ah, Marius, forgive me. I only lash out because I am coward who lost his editorship as a result of wild indulgences and a poor eye for talent.