|Reading these suicide pages you will find people seeking help and people offering their help. Some witness about suicide from real life experience, others who play along with me would pretend it's a children's game. Some make sick and cruel jokes about it, and angry people blame me for even mentioning the subject. You might also want to read my favourite answers. If you want your answer to be included here, fill in the form.|
What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13?
Quelle est la meilleure forme de suicide pour les moins de 13 ans?
|25 Jan 2004||Lauren||chris- sounds stupid but your writing/the way you talk about all this shit is so REAL. you give a shit bout most of the guys on this site and unlike some fucking shrink you actually know what people r going thru. how old are u cos the way you rite its like your more than 30|
|25 Jan 2004||Lauren||to Chris- how old are you?
|23 Jan 2004||mauvaissouhait||hey, yes it is me. I just thought i'd say hello and i'm still here. Chris i miss talking to you and Mouchette thanks for still bein here.|
|18 Jan 2004||Felicia born in the year of the Monkey||I missed you Phil! I thought you were gone. But you didn't appear in my dreams, so I assumed you were still alive. As one of my all time favourite posts posters please feel free to email me. I'm laying on the bed wallowing on my back, gazing at my protruding tummy.
Hi Billy. My name is Felicia. "Lucy's" talked much of you because she has big boobies. To be quite honest, you are so funny! I had a blast reading about your overview on the "Mayan" civilization which involved crossed eyed babies with stones in the middle of their foreheads. I laughed so hard on both you and Lucy's comments, I almost busted a stitch and my guts almost fell all over the floor.
Hi Elaine. You have a nice name. Please don't give up visiting this site because people still do care. If you need a woman to woman talk I am right here. But don't worry. I'm not lesbian. I'm strickly dickly. Ask Lucy about me and she'll give you a good word about me.
Please get started in writing your book which is a bit interesting. I don't know how you do it, but you write pretty long... and that's a talent that should be well spent on a good novel.
For dealing with me and deleting my gripes on loud cultural shock music and my bouts with shock therapy. Yes, I am coming of age. And yes, I am born in the "Year of the Monkey" which begins January 22nd 2004.
|13 Jan 2004||christina||taking all the medine in your medicine cabinet!|
|10 Jan 2004||Chris||Hello my little children. After doing some soul searching at the beginning of the new year I discovered who I really am! Do you not recognise my Gothic script? It is me, your dear, dark, companion Lucifer (better known as the devil). Forgive me for intruding into your daily monotonous lives out of the blue like this. In the olden days my traffic on earth was quite a normality and I had a hell of a time transmogrifying myself to my (and your) heart's desire. People then had this fertile imagination and would conjure me up in the most imponderable of guises. Nowadays, sad to say, I dare not appear anymore for fear of being laughed at. My only remedy is to send these messages by e-mail to your personal computers. And what an invention, my little friends. I must congratulate you for surpassing even my wildest expectations. You have aspired to be like God himself and you seem to be succeeding even better than I.
You are growing up so I have decided to let you into a secret. You can check out all that I will be saying with many authoritative literary sources that are now available on the internet. Because in reality my secret is not so much a secret after all. It has been known all the time by people who had the sense to understand the phenomenon that I represent.
Western mythology, as you will recall, begins with that foreboding trinity of characters: Adam, Eve and Myself. He is the first Man, she the first Woman and I am the Serpent. Now, have you ever asked yourselves, why I should have dressed up as a snake of all animals? Well, you see, ancient peoples considered snakes a bit of an enigma: they have strange, sleek bodies for a start... but above all they seem to renew themselves every now and then. In fact they shed their skins, as any naturalist will know. It will not be hard to realise that snakes then represented the very essence of life itself, because life is in a wide sense indestructible and renews itself constantly by shedding one skin and putting on another. Not by chance one of the authors of Genesis has me wound up the Tree of Life itself!
In another account, however, I climb up the Tree of Knowledge and invite Eve (and then, of course, Adam) to grow up and become moral beings by knowing good and evil. This account is even more interesting than the first, because here I am actually helping mankind rise from its innocent, animal condition, symbolised by Eden, to become thinking Homo Sapiens. Snakes are wily, crafty and terribly intelligent creatures- pretty much like you- and it was fitting that I should lead your ancestors symbolically over the threshold into human-hood.
So why all the fuss, you might ask, with the Old Man getting angry over a forbidden apple, when all it meant was that humans started to think and make value judgments? You do that all the time and pride yourselves with the edge it gives you over all the other animals. So what was old God so angry about? Didn't he make you in his own image in the first place?
The truth, my dear friends, as your illustrious Darwin guessed, was that there never was an Eden, a golden age of innocence, when the wolf slept with the sheep and the lion with the gazelle. The very idea, from an evolutionary point of view, is absurd. Humans were never innocent, naked babies like Adam, but descended from apes and behaved pretty much like troops of baboons. You all know the story of course.
The problem for the Jews who wrote the Bible however, was not the duality between Innocence and Sin, but that between Freedom and Civilisation. You must realise that the ancient Jews were nomads, like the Bedouin of Arabia, who tended their flocks and roamed the desert in search of waterholes. They were free from the shackles of civilian authority, from manual labour in the fields, from sedentary slavery and interdependence. Eden for them symbolised the perfect waterhole, the oasis of their dreams where they could rest in the shade, count their animals and laze about to their heart's content.
When their scriptures were written, the Jews had come along from this idyllic existence and had been forced by the accidents of history and their own ethnic evolution to adapt the ways of the world; they had become civilised. Now they had mud houses, farmed the land, built temples to their God, erected walls around their cities, created social classes, bureaucracies and appointed their own kings. Yet in their heart of hearts they still yearned for their long, lost freedom and never more so when they were conquered and enslaved by their enemies.
So for them the 'first fall' was not from innocence, but from freedom. Cain the farmer killed his brother Abel the goat herd because God was displeased with his fruits and cereals, and preferred the smell of the kid's blood from his brother's altar. There you have the quintessential myth that explains the 'sin' of the Agricultural Revolution and Civilisation. And all throughout the Bible, the Jews were constantly reminded that commerce with the civilised world will be punished.
All this left me, as you know, in a bit of quandary. Of course I had to go out with the bathwater, and so I- the snake, Lucifer- became the antagonist of God. From harbinger of Knowledge and Fertitlity, I was transformed into the very essence of Evil. And Evil was everything that had to do with civilisation: idolatry, pestilence, war, sexual perversion, gluttony... you know, the lot. All my images- the snake, the goat, the bull and the mother goddess- became false gods, demons. Some of my symbols, like the crescent moon signifying the cyclic recurrence of time, the trident symbolising agriculture, the pig, the very mainstay of animal husbandry, were rendered evil and forbidden.
Women, my traditional allies in the lores of agriculture, became my evil accomplices: witches, whose fertility dances around the equinox fires condemned them as my sinister and soulless collaborators.
Because of women, sex, which is the very essence of life, became a by-word for bodily corruption and degeneration. Instead of a healthy exercise in propagating terrestial life, it became the symbolic exercise in procuring spiritual death.
So here I was, as you would say, thrown into the gutter, divested from my true noble role as personification of Civilisation and calumniated continually as a devourer of humans, a perpetrator of evil, the great Tempter, the great Destroyer. I know that in this day and age there is little space for such abstract anthropomorphisms like me. You have science to illuminate you in the secrets of mother nature. But remember this, my dear little friends, that your Original Sin is not a blot which you somehow inherit in your genes, but the very culture that has been transmitted down the ages and which you call Civilisation. The baboons and chimps from which you have descended are smart enough to know right from wrong even though in a limited way... but it was only you, Homo Sapiens, who invented that most original of ambiguities: civilised life, which has fucked you all up and disppointed you and made you all suicidal because of your too high expectations for life.
I have been called many names: Leviathan, Xaitan, Kali, Beelzebub and my gifts have been varied: fertility, life and death, life after death, intelligence... but one thing I am not: abstract, absolute Evil. Good and evil are abstractions fabricated in your cerebral cortex, like love, logic, mathematics and music.
If you want to save humanity (and it's about time, it's bloody 2004), you must not take me for granted anymore. There is only one enemy you must fight: yourselves. Go shoot yourselves! Bye for now.
Cya all in hell!
|31 Dec 2003||Chris||Resolution! Even the word I don't like. It sounds like revolution, which sneaks away with a measly ssss, like a traitorous lago and you a corrupted Othello once again. And, of course it's the opposite of revolution- it won't change anything. Sure, it'll make you feel like the hero of your own story, but isn't that a bit of a sad desire to start with?
Attach the word to New Year's, of course, and you've got a recipe for true cretinism. Is there still anyone over the age of 13 who makes New Year's resolutions? If I've learned anything from my years on this planet, it is that uttering the words "I'm never going to (insert vice here) again" make you look as real as Westlife lyrics. Yes, you will, and yes, despite all the resolutions I made not to lie, I still conceal my weight under clothes which make me look thinner. Resolutions of new years past will come back to haunt you, making you defeat all the more poignant, bringing the inevitable if unexpected discovery that self improvement is not so straightforward after all.
Yet, it is still hard not to get the resolution urge on New Year's Eve. There's that sense of renewal, of rebirth, and the guilty awareness that you ate your weight in chocolate during the holidays. Sure, last year's resolutions were already on the carpet with the last few tinsel and mince pie crumbs by the fifth of January, but hey, this year's going to be different, right? Right?
Not really. New Year Resolutions are the lion's share of this season's cheatings, as fad as the taped tinny carols echoing down the streets or the animosity and well wishes wrapped around every present that you got. Was any month ever so stuffed with the desire to change oneself, make oneself better in the Bridget-Jones style calibration of the things we do wrong, or too much or too little, on a daily basis? We're depressed, drowning in our own affluence and clawing about for an answer, an option on reinvention. Yet, we inevitably fail, year after year.
The proof of your annual failure is that after all these new years and thousands of resolutions, you're still some Lawrence of suburbia, living on the edge, smoking too much, reminding yourself that you are not a 6 year old any more and resolving to be grown-up. Despite your resolution to read more, you still watch crap TV with a soundtrack which seems as though it has been compiled by a drunken punter from a bar jukebox in the dirtiest bar on the darkest street. You still run hot baths, and while the bubbles burst, consider sensible eating options like not biting your nails and unconvincing yourself that a burger a day keeps the doctor away. As regards the gym, the membership card makes for a great beer coaster. After all, you are all for inner beauty, and a slick of lippy, a bit of eyeliner and a top-up deodorant are enough to face the brave new world.
At least, until the end of the year, when resolutions and their failings come full circle, reminding us that the compiling of New Year Resolutions is an essentially pointless exercise. Those of us who do make resolutions certainly do so in the full knowledge that we are unlikely to realise them, and will ultimately end up afflicted by a sense of guilt, by an increased awareness of our personal failings that we might have otherwise been spared. That in itself is an essential part of the whole resolution culture. So why do we persist?
Because we have been persisting for some 4,000 years since the custom was first introduced by the Babylonians, together with demon bowls and magic. The intention was to keep them humble and remind them to do things they might otherwise not. Apparently, the most common resolution doing the Babylonian rounds concerned the return of borrowed farm equipment to its rightful owners. This tradition was revived in Victorian times, albeit in different clothing. The Victorians took their rituals seriously, using them to ward off the burgeoning uncertainties of the fin de siecle years, nourish old roots and imply the presence of others that had never existed. The whole Christmas period, for instance was built up to help keep harsh modernity at bay, and each December 31 was seized on as an opportunity to reassure everyone that stability and cohesion came through ritual, and that, in spite of all the dark talk of decay and disintegration, there would still be growth and renewal in the new year.
Yet, at some point over the course of the past few years, the status of the New Year Resolution changed, and became an altogether darker affair. The resolution has evolved from a casual expression of our vague intention to do good by our neighbour's prototype plough, and become an open statement of our self-disgust, an affirmation of our continual pursuit to be anything better, anything but ourselves, the articulation of our personal dissatisfaction. Why can't we be less like us, and a little bit more like Kylie Minogue or Brad Pitt? Why can't we stop smoking and be thinner, fitter and kinder to animals? Why can't we plot against our individual failings and be better?
If you take such things seriously, the planning period of New Year's resolutions starts about now. For some, it might be a quick five-to-midnight mental scan, but I know others who spend hours designing the improved self, scheduled to arrive on new year's day. Chances are, even if you haven't acted out the New Year resolution mini ritual at some point over the last few days, you have been aware of the issue. Some small part of our psyche will have coughed politely, raised its finger and suggested that now might be a great time to curl up in a quiet corner with an appropriately pretty notebook, a fountain pen and a reverent air, and begin itemising the path to a better you. Or you simply think of every quality you don't like, draw up a wish list pf replacements, and at midnight the one would be exchanged for the other.
The list will include both physical and mental new ideas. Physically, we are hooked on the possibility that we could improve- be prettier, more groomed, more toned better dressed. Our economy depends upon it. Should we start believing that we can exist without a product that will combat the seven signs of ugliness, or a gym membership will rein in our flesh. All of this adds up to a general disenchantment that corresponds quite neatly with the annual resolve to do things better in 2004.
So while for most of the year, we think that a balanced diet consists of beer and hot dogs, slimming in the month of January becomes the world's favourite obsession. Maybe we should keep it so, since we have an obesity rate fit to make it to the Ritcher scale! For a few weeks, gyms are temporarily full of clients, horrified by what a post-festive step on the scales have revealed. For a few weeks, gyms are temporarily full of clients, fired by self improving zeal, sporting new trainers and learning the difference between a pec-deck and a bench-press.
It doesn't last. While for the first few weeks of January, the number of people who join gyms planning to do several times a week is high, the number still sticking with that months later is much lower, and many will have stopped going before January is over. As the initial enthusiasm and motivation disappear, people fall off the bench-press, stick to their beer and hot dogs diet, and let gyms grow fat on broken New Year's resolutions and promises and annual paid memberships.
So will drug companies who produce nicotine patches and gum. Each year, the production of these remedies doubles and so their marketing, since record number of smokers are always expected to try to kick the habit at the start of the new year. Everything starts the night before. You throw away everything to do with smoking- cigarettes, matches, ashtrays and the lot. Then before you go to bed, you run the cigarettes under the tap. Otherwise, you'll be delving in the bin, wiping baked beans off them in the morning. With a final flourish you start collecting all the money you would have saved in a jar thinking what a holiday you're going to buy. But like all resolutions it started with the bang of the ashtray on the floor and ended with a whimper of waking up groping for cigarettes near your bed and finding none. Then suddenly you see the light from heaven and you go out to buy cigarettes or at least you see the light of the open fridge!
Alas new year resolutions seldom make it past February! Why? Simply because most of us don't have a clue how to make a reasonable resolution, which is why most of us fail to keep the ones we make. So we either set up goals which are easy to keep such as sleeping as much as we can or breathing, or else stop making resolutions at all.
I just have decided that to give up smoking and getting up late in the mornings, or to clean my teeth with interdental brushes just wouldn't contribute to making the world a better place- so Fuck it! And anyway, I attribute most of my vices to the stress inflicted on me by others. I am their victim; and if they were to reform themselves, I would doubtless become a better person too.
Maybe we should make collective resolutions such as being more sophisticated as a country to celebrate diversity and start behaving like a tolerant country and relax. Together we should make an effort to be who we really are and not pretend to be others. Surely it makes more sense.
Yet maybe the only resolution we will keep in 2004 is to be good and dedicated bargain hunters and spend our leftover money in January, the month when many of us rush to the shops in search of that elusive must have item at a fraction of its usual price. We will crazily rummage the shelves, offering an arresting spectacle of consummerism at its nakedest while the bands play on. And again we will be a failed people, a failed nation and a failed, fucked up world!
But I live on (unfortunately) in hope. Happy New Year!
See ya all drunk, but again, Be ReaL!!!
|24 Dec 2003||Chris||I would say an optimist is one who walks down the street, finds no clothes to fit and flatter, and pronounces the death of fashion while asking that eternal question, "Does my mother look big in this?". Then the optimist will go for another lap around the shops and eventually finds something nice and very expensive. But what the fuck- everywhere Christmas lights are blazing and the message is 'Get spending now!'
A pessimist, on the other hand, will go round the same shops, sees no traffic in street wear, and decides that it is one's body that has gone out of fashion. Then one goes home and imagines life as it should be, not as it is, how fashion in this world is something of a juvenile pursuit but one day someone Promethean will do something about it.
I am of the latter party pooper species. So it comes as no surprise that I don't see Christmas as the most wonderful time of the year. Rather, it's the most anxious, the most desperate, the most self-punishing. Each December we struggle to achieve perfection- the presents must be just right, the turkey dinner must be wonderful and your party dresses or suits must be enough to make everyone wail and flutter with envy.
Inevitably, we fail on all counts, and these silent nights become a time for problems. You need to arrive somewhere fast but no one would give you a lift. The Christmas tree has started shedding the needles all over the carpet. The shops have just closed and you've realised that the shawl you've bought for your mum is exactly like the one you gave her last year. There are odd noises coming out of the oven and in the news, five carol singers whom you have just treated to a warm coco, have been rushed to hospital. Your angina is playing up, and heavy winds, rain and a migraine are expected in the next five minutes. Friends, who have been making merry in the various water holes across the country, just puked up over the yellow and gold scatter cushions and your cousin is coming to stay for three days and threatening to bring her kids along too, thank you very much. Then a policeman turns up to inform you that the neighbours have reported a mushroom cloud over your house. The oven. Happy Christmas? You blind or what?
And this is only the night before Christmas. After Christmas, it would be nice to go on holiday, from this laborous quest for perfection, it would be nice to have rest from all that unrewarding striving. But instead, we follow it up with New Year's Eve, perhaps the most anxious and unpleasant evening of most people's calendar.
Christmas is not perfect, yet we imagine it to be, simply because it is a ritual, to be followed to the letter, weighed down with the memory of perfect Christmases past that are totally figments of a whisky or sherry-drunk imagination. This is why it feels so disastrously wrong if it does not work out and why we long so much for it to be just right. And why year after year, we assume that everyone is having fun during their Christmas holidays. And if not, some charity will do the trick.
Well, not quite everyone is as lucky as the happy ones always getting drunk. Many people have to earn their living on a Christmas Day and New Year. TV people for instance. And if they are not actually on the premises they are at the mercy of a cell phone. And if they are not at the mercy of a cell phone, they are on the premises churning out old time favourites and Christmas shows spiced up with flamenco dancing and charity shows. While most terrestrial TV stations will operate with a relatively skeletal staff over the festive period, the idea that the world's viewing lies in the hands of the few and the somnolent couldn't be further from the truth. Take the newsrooms for instance- they will be staffed just in case Martians were to arrive while the rest of us are passed out in a fag of seasonal bonhomie.
Bus drivers work, save a couple of hours to enjoy a Christmas lunch which will probably start a couple of hours late and will only give them time to slurp down the lasagna or turkey with a litre of wine and tinsel. Hospitals are fully staffed- obviously someone has to be on duty in case Santa gets stuck up the chimney and breaks his leg. The wards will still hold their sick for the night. Security guards and policemen, soldiers and waiters, barmen and taxi drivers, all will be on duty on shifts in order that we can carry on with our celebrations.
Not everyone will be at home, reeking of figgy pudding and getting carried away with the sweet scent of mincemeat. And if you had assumed that everyone will be happy and huddled with the family at this time of year, then wake up and smell your grandpa's cheap vermouth. A lot of people will be unhappy this season, thanks to the massive build-up towards the festive season. December is supposed to be a time to enjoy oneself, but for those on their own or who can't afford it, celebrations will just make them feel left out, sad and angry. We know this, but think that some millions of pounds in charity will make the poor and the homeless joyous, and leave us to enjoy our Christmas and New Year with a calmed conscience.
Yet charity is not enough, in a world where we spend eleven months in charitable hibernation, then splash out and start giving charity like mad (in hope that by some chance we might get something back for it). And there are people who are beyond charity, and who do not need money to spend a happy Christmas. Divorced or seperated couples for instance, rostering the time each will spend with their children. The elderly, who have been abandoned by their family, fearing loneliness and insecurity and dreaming of Christmases past- What good will charity be for them? Not to mention prisoners. Will they and their family be enjoying themselves like the rest of us? Well, probably prison is the safest place to be during Christmas, but certainly not the most joyful. For children in hospitals, and those separated from their parents and friends and staying in orphanages, Christmas will be a difficult time as well. Not all children will be writing their Christmas wish list and running in circles round the Christmas tree making themselves ill. Some of them are ill aready lying in a hospital bed. And what about the suicidals, who no matter what day of the year it is they just feel more suicidal and see no bright hope for the future- rather a worse year than the one that is just going to end!
And after Christmas... there is another year. And while Christmas is supposed to be about birth, the New Year seems to promise a fresh start. What shall we do tomorrow? We can start again, if not from year zero, then at least a nice round number, 2004. We shall (or at least try to) erase our pasts, purge ourselves of recent excesses, cast off the shameful parts of ourselves and walk backlit by the rising sun, through the streets filled with the wreckage of the previous year- broken glass and red eyed party goers coming down from that 2003 high. We shall make resolutions to be better, thinner, learn German or something, stand up straight, stop smoking, make only perfect souffles and a never ending litany which we will not succeed in. We shall be reborn into our own lives. It will be a miracle! We shall be a better men and women and be more charitable kind. We shall wave the old year good riddance.
This is indeed a salutary tie of year but not because it gives pause to reorientate ourselves, and change our goals. Rather because it brings sharp relief into what happens during the rest of the year, in which prisoners, orphans, children in hospital and suicidals are not in the news. It is only during these times that these people are given the warm shoulder. So while you and your family all over the world are getting together and reminding yourselves of all the reasons why you're not together for the rest of the year, just think about the ones who have no choice. Remind yourself of those who really count their blessings and who don't want a present this Christmas but to be present and to be given a chance of a good life. Mouchie, you're the only one giving the warm shoulder to everybody all year round. Congratulations and Merry Christmas and a happy New Year to you and all you people reading this!
P.S. Leanne, I read your post, 'Leanne about Chris' many times and I still cannot fully grasp if I should take it positively, negatively or neutrally. Sometimes it sounds as if you're accusing me of being here but not there for you, sometimes it sounds as if you're loving but you don't want to. Yeah, I know that cold, numb or only angry can feel good but only to a certain point. One day you look at someone and you feel something strange. You put your hand on your chest and feel a rhythm and you realise that you still have a warm heart that still beats and loves and that it was only the people who you loved that left and not the love itself. It was just covered with this cold, hard layer that was peeled off when you saw that someone. As the song says 'love hurts' and one day your heart will be covered in that cold layer again. But you will keep hoping that some day you will find that someone who will be worth loving and hurting for and you won't mind the pain. Good luck to you for finding that someone and sorry if I hurt you in some way. The closest I can get is by e-mailing you but as you never asked I never did for fear of being a pest of myself and considered junk mail. Whatever you say and think, I will still love you and I think I can understand you and I wish you all the best for this festive season, beyond it and forever! (What I wrote today about sad Christmases wasn't to spoil the fun but to make you think about reality!)
See ya all having fun (if you can manage it) and getting drunk but Be ReaL!!!
|21 Dec 2003||Felicia||December 21st, 2003
My Mom decided to meet Elvis this morning at exactly 8:10 a.m. Pacific Time.
This is the saddest Christmas ever.
|21 Dec 2003||LeanneaboutChris||I'm back but not better. I've been busy thinking about trying not to think. Feeling too much or too little, I'd rather feel nothing. I used to feel numb, nothing, frozen and blank. Now, I'd actually like that back... too much emotion is a poison. I've gained bad times, and lost the good&distant ones. I have been longing and yearning for something, someone. A figment of my imagination perhaps? Somebody who can see the 'me' inside, who I wish was here but can't be. I lost touch, but keeping in touch just isn't enough.
I didn't forget about the one that mattered, and still does matter, just tried to erase him from my mind. Out of sight, out of mind? Been there, done that... doesn't work.
Festive season is amongst us yet again... don't be a stranger. Keep loving and most importantly keep living.
|20 Dec 2003||Chrissy||give them good tasting pills and tell them its candy|
|20 Dec 2003||billy the freak||wow, i am very impressed with all of you, your writing of course. i finally got time to read some of the posts. mouchette, you're looking beautiful as always. chris, you are absolutely right. this is a safe place where you can express yourself, in many ways. some people come in here and just babble about nothing but they feel better when they're done, some people come in here and scream about how they want to hang their neck up and never come back. makes wonder if they might be hanging from a ceiling beam somewhere. you got people who want to give their best advice and hope they can save a life. then you got the ones who want to use it as a creative outlet like myself. i personally feel that's what makes this interesting. i was here from the beginning and right now this piece of art is taking a wonderful shape. be safe and have a happy holiday season.
lucy, have a wonderful christmas darling!!!
|20 Dec 2003||Chris||I know you've been waiting for a continuation of 9th December's post. So here it comes...
Anyway, the potatoes (yeah, you remember I was boiling potatoes) were done. I got off bed which juttted out of a double-doored closet and went into the coffin-sized kitchen, 'kitchenette' was the euphemism used on the For Rent sign. I grabbed the handle of the pan in a hot pad, held the lid loosely over the top and poured the hot water into the sink, devastating as I did a long column of ants marching over the porcelain on their way to the cupboard. Then I let the potatoes roll and bump out onto my plate, four dead boiled potatoes. I took them into the other room and sat down on the edge of the bed to eat.
There was one window in the room and the raspberry-coloured walls added to the gloom. As I put forkfuls of potato in my mouth and they formed a metallic-tasting mucilage, I told myself I had to learn to cook. I was a long way from the quite good food you eat in average restaurants, let alone the posh ones. Maybe I could check out a cookbook from the library. I had lots of time to learn to cook...
I began to have the idea I didn't know what I was. It seemed I had, once, but apparently I had thought I was what I was doing. That had been all right when I had been a boy who was always happy, a dreamer who dreamed about love and changing the world into a better place, a good boy who studied and worked hard at school, a boy who made people laugh with him instead of at him and a boy who had an enthusiasm for life in general, California style bon vivant. But to apply the same standard now to the 'all dreams shattered', loveless, non-enthusiastic approach, miserable creature lying on a bed at noon in a cheap room, lunching on boiled potatoes, that called for a conclusion about myself that I didn't want to make.
Trying to see myself from the point of view of other people didn't help. I barely know other people and they all seem stupidly the same. And still I couldn't feel the guilt of anything I've done in life and I still couldn't understand why people always laugh at me or say stupid things about me in hushed tones. None of the things I thought of helped. I could really only concentrate on what lay immediately before me, the problems of studying and eating. However memory helped by hurting. Memory brought pain which obscured necessity. Love hadn't left me, only the people I had loved had. So my friends and my imaginary girlfriend remained to dart into my thoughts when I was at my most unprotected, remained to confuse my focus on survival.
It worked the other way round too, the need of surviving distorted my love. As now, lying back on the bed with my hand over my eyes, disgusted, depressed, breathing only because I had no choice, my imagination gave me my imaginary girlfriend and then mocked what I had been given. With the image of this 'girlfriend' came the thought that I had ommitted a noise in my catalogue of sounds, the trickling toilet in the bathroom. And as if that wasn't enough it had to be degraded even more. A girlfriend, and longing for a girlfriend, and a popular tune, a trickling toilet, a tune twisted into a parody for self-humiliation, the connections rushed into my mind, I had to admit the thought belonged to me, 'a trickling toilet in the next apartment, those stumbling words...' couldn't be what my heart meant!
I fixed my eyes on the raspberry ceiling. It was too ugly a hue to create an atmosphere of sentimentality, and the light bulb with its flowered cloth skirt had its own dime-store harshness. With a kind of relief I managed to fasten my mind on these things. The blotchy paint, the forty-watt bulb, and the skirt, handmade with a dirty, rough touch to it. These things told me where I was, told me I was Chris in a cheap room with lots of shit to study and work at and no better idea of what to do than lie on my back on a metal bed and examine the ceiling. I reached for a newspaper lying nearby and stared to read an article before I realised I had made a decision to stop wasting my time and work. But what could I do? How could I catch up with the rest? How was I to be as good as, or even better than the rest of the people who have been working their nuts off all year round? But then I realised, it didn't really matter what it was, I just knew that I had to do something, to move on in life, so maybe one day I could earn some proper money, to prove myself that I could do that much (because even if painfully, school and work are the only things going for me in life, so if I even fail in that, I'm pretty fucked!) So from today, I swear I'm gonna do more than just stare around and waste my time!
See ya slavin' your nuts off!
|17 Dec 2003||Felicia Ticked at the Music Industry||THIS IS TO THE MUSIC INDUSTRY INFLUENCE
I've found that there are many teenagers entering this website. The fact that I am old, I'm still young at heart, I am old when it comes to computerized or some wannabe folklore rock or rap that's gone bad. Criminy though, please don't get me wrong, but it seems the music I hear on the radio is getting worst. And....the lyrics of suicide along with illicit sex incantations are enormous. Basically, you're starting to hear the word "Fuck" all the time and the sounds of human moaning. Its like Led Zeppelin or Jim Morrison on acid, a million times over. I mean GOD FORBID! You skater boys, no offense sweeties--please note that I love humankind's well being, blast them earphones so damn loud, it's enough to give me a headache in a six feet distance or whatever.
In a nutshell, music nowadays, will make anybody.... just anybody want to commit suicide!
Do I make myself clear?
If I were you, please lower the volume, limit the negative music to positive lyrics, and read a book or go outside, surf skate, have sex, without the music blasting those freakin profanities, within a 6-mile radius.
And you damn top head music promoters condone it! What's the matter with you! If you guys wonder why kids become worst is "BECAUSE (YOU FREAKING ) LET THEM HEAR THEM!!! And now that this is the only music playing nowadays because you ALLOW it, the kids have come accustomed to it, and I have to hear it at work against my will!!!! Don't you know that if you keep doing this, all teens or kids will grow up to only "CUSS, FIGHT, AND BREED!!!" What kind of President will we have in the future YES .Osama Bin Laden, that BASTARD, will seem like a saint for goodness sake.
GOD! Even American Idol won't condone it. Simon, though everybody says he's asshole, it absolutely right on the nose! If these so called Musicians were to perform in front of Simon, he would say,
"That was ABSOLUTELY horrible!!!!!!"
For Christmas, I am going to buy all you music top head honchos, a American Idol Simon doll, set a spell on it to say insults, and it can haunt you like Linda Blair from the Exorcist!
|13 Dec 2003||Justin||*laughing* Chris, my dear fellow, a tad bit defensive there are we? My my. My apologies for not being a "regular" at "how to kill yourself when youre under 13". I am utterly heartbroken at not being included in this elite forum. Please, accept my most humble apologies for besmearing your name to all the loyal minions beneath you. Get a life, my friend. Stop taking yourself so fucking seriously.|
|13 Dec 2003||Chris||Justin, I'm sorry too for you are TOTALLY wrong. Some facts: I am NOT married, I am still a teen myself, I DO NOT have any kids. I think you are confusing me with the Chris who wrote on 26th November 2003 (The name Chris who's not me has cropped up some other times and I had warned that it wasn't me, I thought there wasn't need to warn again)! And I doubt if you read that carefully. He didn't say he has two kids but he has: "a beautiful 2 year old daughter". In his post he also says that after watching some documentary he: "searched and stumbled on this site" which clearly shows he was the first time here (and I am far from a first timer! He also left his e-mail address which I never do (I think that's proof enough that I'm not trying to "get action" from here) and over all what he wrote is not my kind of writing! And from all those really "gross pleas from female names" I can only remember two who have talked directly to me regularly in their posts; Leanne and Mauvais! Surely it's not that much. And I still respect and love them a lot. I have e-mailed Mauvais, but only on her request and I can swear I'm not playing up. And Justin, you haven't got the WHOLE point of mouchette.org. For us long timers here, the What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13? is just a rhetoric question that can build up a train of thought. Yes, I've written about suicide but suicide is not all there is. As long as we're still alive things that make us either happy or sad are happening all the time and one would want to share his/her experiences. Mouchette.org is our home. You are also wrong about the etiquette of this site. Anything, anyone posts is shown to everybody because everyone can have his say or opinion, even personal attacks, although they might hurt. You also said "offering help to people". I never directly did that. I need help myself (but then it was the other Chris who offered it directly too). You also call the Chris you're talking about a "gentleman" and then you imply that he's probably a: "sick man on this board hoping to find young, impressionable and depressed teens for some action)! I wouldn't call that kind of man a 'gentleman'! I think I have dissected all your message and proved you wrong all the way. Before you talk, read all evidence carefully, think and do your homework. Your post was a shabby piece made on lots of bits and pieces which are untrue (and can be easily seen as untrue)!
Looking at it more positively, I can make two points. Fist is that it's good to talk/criticise if you feel something is not right or not fully understandable, and maybe request an answer for some particular post. Second point is that sick people on this site should IMMEDIATELY move out. I hate peadophiles and peadophelia. If anyone thinks this is a joke or a game, fuck off. If anyone is playing around, he/she is a really sick, perverted player!
Can I prove that what I said is the holy truth? No, you just have to trust me! But then, I trust you that you are not a sick player yourself, that you are who you say you are. (The action is easier for you as people can actually contact you because you left your e-mail) and I trust you that all your mistakes were genuine and not to try and fuck me up!
Anyways, enough of that! For those who've been dying for the continuation of last time's post... wait some more, because I have ran out of time!
P.S Thanks Mauvais for that post. Couldn't have said it better myself but I just wanted to enforce the point!
See ya soon...
|11 Dec 2003||MauvaisSouhait||Justin, i'm sorry to inform you but Chris is not a bad guy at all. Maybe the Chris you were thinking of is perhaps someone different. This Chris, my Chris is a unique person. Not married, younger than you in fact. He's caring, sweet and wouldn't be on here to just "get action" seeing as how he does not leave his e-mail. This chat is not for just talking about how to kill urself if you are under 13. That is just something to get you to think. If you look at my comments you can tell, we don't talk about this much. The people who have been here for a while understand. It's alright to write about things other than that, to write how you feel, whatever it is you desire. This is a place to be yourself. I hope you understand.|
|09 Dec 2003||Enigma||I had a Mr. Potato head once, but I lost it. I also had one of those Meesha bears (spelling?)--the olympic bears from the 80s--and my mom has it somewhere in storage with a bunch of my other stuff that I'll never get back. Just like that Barbie condo I got for Christmas one year that she never let me take out of the box. Maybe that's why I don't like Barbie anymore. It's probably worth money now.|
|09 Dec 2003||Justin||I'm not sure what the etiquette on this board is and I hazard being accused of personal attacks here, however I intend it merely as a critique, however offensive it might end up sounding. Well, I have been reading through pages on this site, and I notice one particular person who especially seems to stand out. This would be the infamous "Chris". Now, I may be totally off-base here in saying this, but am I the only one who finds it a tad disturbing that this gentleman, married with two kids, is posting long posts with topics totally irrelevant to the topic under discussion, and then offering to be "help" to people. And then, scroll up, and read all these really gross pleas from female names about how they love this said Chris, or whatnot. I mean, I'm sorry Chris if I'm totally wrong on this, but I'm just telling it how I see it. I really hope you aren't some sick man on this board hoping to find young impressionable and depressed teens for some action. That's all. I doubt this will get posted anyhow. Ciao.|
|09 Dec 2003||Chris||I ended up for a week in a rented room. It was supposed to be with friends but I always was alone while my 'friends' were out. While I was alone I began to notice noises. Maybe before I had never noticed it but now it seemed to me that noise surrounded, almost overwhelmed, my life. I woke up to noise and was aware of a crescendo until about one o'clock when there was a lull. Then the volume and variety grew even more slowly until between four-thirty and six-thirty came the fantastic din. The city shaking every noisemaker it possessed. Then another lull before evening had its own rumbling and, last of all, only a few lonely cars speeding down the streets long after midnight.
Now I was near the peak of the noon crescendo and lying on my bed one small rich sound, which it seemed odd I could hear at all, emphasised the rest of the din. I heard a bell, from a church or public building. In one pitch it struck four stately quarter-hours and then changed to a deeper voice for the long business of tolling twelve o'clock noon. It sounded beautiful. On its behalf I began to list its competition.
Traffic contibuted most of the clangor, a grotesque choir of unharmonised horns, whining differentials, outraged transmissions, suffocated screaming engines, frightened brakes. Then there were airplanes, whooshing or droning overhead, and, never long between them, sirens wailing human catastrophe. Voices joined in, gobbbling like turkeys, shrieking, shouting, laughing, pouting, humming monotonously some lyric to their thoughts, and voices and music from radios, telling the news, selling, giving, protesting, promising, lying by the hundreds of violins, agitating with the hoarse moan of saxophone.
My own room more humbly did its share. The window chattered in its old putty to a truck's throb in the alley, footsteps walked over a thin carpet to knock at or unlock a door, the floor always quivered from the surge of an automatic washer or dryer in a room on the street floor below; dishes and pans clattered and sometimes crashed in sinks, the bedsprings beneath me gave cricket cries when I moved and from the hotplate the salted water boiled softly among some potatoes I was cooking.
BONG and silence and whether anyone had listened or not it was definitely twelve o'clock. Hearing the bell it occurred to me that I didn't really need my watch. In my room I always seemed to hear the bells and on the streets many stores had clocks. I took my hand from under the pillow and looked at my watch, a good one, from my parents given to me on a Christmas many moons ago. I thought of giving it back to them and telling them that it only brings bad memories to me (although they will not understand) and the act seemed too childish. It took me a few seconds to realise that the watch didn't read noon but a quarter after, and when I took it off to reset it I saw that the gold was wearing thin here and there, that the face had darkened unevenly; and a watch which ran fast was more expensive to fix than one which ran slow (this watch had become like a reflection of my life, so shitty and weary). I could get some money if I could find anyone who would buy it. And ten minutes more for my boiled potatoes to be ready.
I heard my next door neighbour, a woman, come in for lunch. Betweem the time she slammed her door shut and I heard her opening kitchen cupboards was never more than a minute. Quick and efficient on her lunch hour. I didn't know what she looked like. I had planned to be coming down the hall at noon but I didn't care that much. The worst thing that happened since I was being left all the time alone was that I didn't want to see anyone more than ever. She turned on the radio and now and then when there was something she knew she sang, just a patch of it and then humming or silence as her hands became busy. It was impossible to tell her age from her voice.
I thought, for a kind of self-justification, that the morning had been a waste of time- but of course it hadn't. I had lay down on my bed observing and appreciating sounds and noises. So when you think you're alone, hear the sounds, noises and voices around you and you realise with the presence of life around you. The sounds are not gonna cheer you up but it may be better than the sound of silence creeping in on you like death, freaking you out and making you think more about suicide until you do it...
To be continued...
P.S. Leanne, that was really kool of you. You may feel so shitty with no enthusiasm to write here also but it's nice to pop in from time to time; say hello or say fuck off, anything, as long as I know you're still there. You helped me a lot although I will not tell you to write or not to write, to commmit suicide or not to commit suicide but until you're still here might as well say something. Love you always! xxxxxxx
So until the continuation.... See ya!