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.