|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?
|23 Sep 2003||Chris||People just love intruding on each other's lives. They want to know what happened to the person living next door, they want to know that people have bigger problems than theirs so that they can feel better and they want to have others to gossip on. They also want to know that they aren't the only suicidal people. So you can imagine that my part of my secret diary (which I published two posts ago on 10th September 2003), 'which I write like a man with a hidden vice', was found interesting by lots of people. So I decided to publish another bit. I believe that this part happened soon after the pokies incident...
When I went out of the casino I found the railway station. Outside the railway station, I turned left and walked along the side of the dark road. Judging by the rural surroundings and the poppet heads of coal mines, I had reached far beyond the outskirts of the city but, always lacking a sense of direction, could not tell whether I was walking towards or away from it. What the hell? I didn't know where I was going; didn't care where I had come from. (Life is shit anywhere after all).
I began to signal passing vehicles, remembering what my friend Trevor used to say about big new cars never giving you a lift, only old cars or trucks. They all left me standing, old, new, big, small, trucks and cars alike, until self-disgust made its final statement: having utterly decided to kill myself beyond any possibility of changing my mind, I had stranded myself in a strange mining village without tablets or any other means of consummating the deed. The wind suction of a passing truck almost pulled me off my feet. I had always had a phobia about falling: looking down from a high balcony, an almost irresistible urge to jump or fall would grip me; the same urge to jump or fall under a moving train always led me to step well back when one entered a platform, even at the risk of missing a seat. Simple really; all I had to do was fall or jump under a passing vehicle; stand close so the urge would grip me. Or better still step right to the middle of the road and stand hypnotised by the headlamps like a kangaroo on a bush track.
A truck- judging by the height of and space between the bright lights- the lights growing larger, drawing me into their path. Pain? No, the falling body and the depressed soul obliterated on impact. 'Unknown man killed by truck'. I imagined the headline! An accident beyond all danger of being labelled suicide. But that kind of death could add no meaning to my life. The body still twirling slowly down from the death throes, head to one side, the mouth agape like a strangled bird, blood pouring from the nose and ears, turning the white shirt the colour of crashed raspberries: that is the kind of death. But I could never hang myself; and lynchings happened only in my dreams.
The screeching brakes; the lurching, plunging truck and I am lying by the roadside breathless but unhurt, scrambling to my feet, picking up the fallen brief-case, the truck coming back. "Could you give me a lift, mate?" I asked, affecting an air of unconcern. "A lift?" he shouted. "Listen, you just went close to getting a lift to eternity. You stepped... I overlapped him: "I tried to signal and got dazzled by the lights". He peered at me in an accusing tone and sked: "Where are you going?" I asked back: "Where are you going?". He named a place which I cannot remember the name of but he named a highway so I said: "The highway? That will do for me, if it wouldn't be too much trouble". He still seemed unconvinced but shrugged and said: "No trouble".
I scrambled into the truck beside him, having struggled to open the high door. In the reflected light of the cabin, he appeared to be a man with some Maori or perhaps Thursday Island blood: an ambivalent man, with a flat secretive face and sly ironic eyes. He wore dungarees, a singlet, a tattered wollen jacket and a raffishly angled cap.
"What, you running away from your mother or something?" he asked, looking in the rear vision mirror outside his door as we drove off. "Nothing like that. Had too much beer at a club and got on the wrong train." I managed a casual smile. "Where will you come out on the highway?". He again mentioned someplace and I told him: "Know it, that's where I'm going."
This coincidence seemed to quiet his suspicions but I wanted to divert the conversation away from my nocturnal journey. I picked up a book which had lain on the dash board, I could make out the title in the dim light: 'Live and Let Die'. "Do a bit of reading I see". "Not much: spend most of my time at the wheel or asleep: generally carry a book to read at roadside cafes." He braked suddenly as the driver in front signalled a right turn at a road junction but changed her mind and went straight on. "Women drivers!" he exclaimed and swung the huge semi-trailer right as if it were a sports car. The book still lay in my hands: 'Live and Let Die'.
It reminded me of a book I had borrowed about suicide, death and afterlife which had entered my house by stealth, like a lecher smuggled into a nunnery by a novice. The question was where to hide it because I didn't want my mother to find it and learn about my intentions. It was a paperback printed on cheap paper and I carried it by day forced into my hip-pocket, and slept with it under my pillow at night. At first I didn't even dare to read a page for fear of being discovered, like a child with a forbidden comic.
Then, one day in the secrecy of the toilet, I took it out with trembling hands. On the back cover was a photo of the author, with a high forhead, a near beard and a jovial expression. His twinkling eyes seemed to seek recognition for his wit and knowledge. They showed that for him the subject wasn't depressing but a relief. Someone tried to open the toilet door. I slammed my feet against it and said sorry. As I shot the bolt, the book dropped to the floor. The title printed in red letters seemed to glow like a neon light. Like a criminal destroying evidence in fear that the police will arrive, I tore the cover off and, later ripping it into small pieces, threw it into the toilet bowl and pulled the chain. Some pieces did not flush. I scooped up the soggy craps from the water and wrapped them in a handcherkief. Then, after a long wait, the plunge of the cistern sounded like a surging waterfall as it sucked the incriminating pieces down. But bit by bit, in the secrecy of the toilet I read it all and got more obsessed by suicide.
Back to the truck. The truck coasted on a straight stretch of road and the driver glanced sidelong at me. "I always pick up a hitch-hiker; know why?" he asked. "For the company?" "No, because I'm curious about strangers". He turned his head slyly, at the same time inquisitive and sceptical. "Take yourself: I'm driving along in the rain in the middle of nowhere when into my light beam jumps a well dressed bloke with an umbrella and brief-case who says he has got on the wrong train." "Truth is stranger than fiction." "Yeah, and he just happens to be going where I'm going." I began to see the truck driver as a challenge to my ability to hide my real thoughts and identity behind my conversation. I felt a curious elation like an actor ready to move in a difficult role. "That's how it is with life" I began. "If I were to put in a novel some things that have happened to me- people would think I was a nut."
He was distracted, however, by the demands of the road, which now began to wind through a mountainous rain forest, and he leaned over the wheel with concentraed skill. The lights picked up now high tension wires to the left; now the sheer cliff to the right; now a bridge beneath which a cascading stream tumbled over sandstone. The forest was tropically lush, a dark tangle of ferns and vines, palms and gum trees, seen through the swishing rain, like a jungle where wild animals might lurk and morbid fungus flourish.
My thoughts moved in spirals as if they were a memory circling, waiting to land. Was there a beginning- if God made the world, who made God?- could something infinite exist outside the finite material world? This old conundrum had been poised above my brain-box like a guillotine ever since I started embracing the truth in the books of science, art and mathematics. Later, I had formed the habit of posing this question in school classes and private conversation and always answering it in the negative. More recently, I had left it suspended in the air like a flying saucer, controversial and obtuse. And on thinking about the beginning I also thought about the end, and I wished that the truck would crash into a dark spot killing both me and the driver, to be found years later, forgotten by everyone. But the end naver came... and so I keep on living this fucked up, sorrowful life!
P.S. To anyone who called me a samaritan, first read all my posts. You might change your opinion! And those few, rare days when I try to be positive and help both me and you get on, don't spoil them.
See ya all in hell!
|18 Sep 2003||Steve||Chris, sorry, but your reply is of no use. Everyone's seen that stupid "If the population of the world were 100" study and it has no bearing on the way anyone thinks. Saying "Fuck like there's no tomorrow" doesn't make anyone feel good either, let alone motivate them to actually get out and do it. Really, if someone has the urge to commit suicide, the last person who's going to stop them is some good samaritan who's just telling them to be more care-free and let things go.
This is one of the weirdest sites I've ever seen by the way. There's someone named Lucy (who most of you seem to be acquainted with for some odd reason) who talks about having big breasts, and then within the same post breaks down and says their name is really Phil and their identity has been a hoax. Then they say they're about to kill themself after visiting this site for x months. Well, given the fact that they seemed to have no problem creating and roleplaying a flamboyant identity for so long, I'd wonder if they're even telling the truth about their intended actions. Best of wishes to them anyhow.
I'm writing this and I have the topic line: "What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13?" staring me in the face and yet I haven't been writing messages in response to that question, nor have most other people. This ultimately just adds to the weirdness of the site, because the conception that people below 13 really even consider about suicide is ridiculous in itself, and no one seems interested in discussing such a strange topic. Perhaps I'm wrong, but this just seems more like a suicide discussion area. However, that description doesn't even fit sometimes, because there are all sorts of people jumping in with weird, irrelevant stories that look as if they were pasted straight out of a novel or something and have little or nothing to do with suicide.
Where am I going with this? Well, I'm curious to find out what some people here are thinking when they come in to post messages. Did they just wake up one morning and think "Hey, you know what, I'm going to look for a suicide page on the internet and paste some sort of fable onto their boards. That certainly won't bore or confuse any of the readers!" or perhaps "I'm going to find a suicide page on the internet and roleplay a woman with large breasts and talk about all my hilarious mishaps. That'll be right on topic." I'd just like to know, because I came here after doing a google search to look into suicide methods to see what methods might be bearable if I were to make the final decision to actually go through with it.
|16 Sep 2003||Chris||It's mid-September and its been a long, hot, hot summer, and everyone seems to be complaining about how totally unconfortable and suicidal they are, including me. I came across this study the other day that served, for a short while at least, to put our discomfort into perspective. Read on...
The study had this idea. If we could shrink the earth's population to a village of precisely 100 people, with all the existing human ratios remaining the same, it would look something like the following.
There would be 57 Asians, 21 Europeans, 14 from the Western Hemisphere, both North and South, 8 Africans, 52 would be female, 48 would be male, 70 would be non-white, 30 would be white, 70 would be non-Christian, 30 would be Christian, 89 would be heterosexual, 11 would be homosexual, 6 people would possess 59% of the entire world's wealth and all 6 would be from the United States, 80 would live in substandard housing, 70 would be unable to read, 50 would suffer from malnutrition, 1 would be near death, 1 would be near birth, 1 (yes, only 1) would have a college education and 1 would own a computer.
When one considers our world from such a compressed perspective, the need for acceptance, understanding and education becomes glaringly apparent. The following is also something to ponder: If you woke up this morning with more health than illness, you are more blessed than the million people who will not survive the week. If you have never experienced the danger of battle, the loneliness of imprisonment, the agony of torture, or the pang of starvation... you are ahead of 500 million people in the world. If you can attend a chhurch meeting without fear of harassment, arrest or torture, or death, you are more blessed than three billion people in the world. If you have food in the refrigerator, clothes on your back, a roof overhead and a place to sleep, you are richer than 75% of the world. If you have money in the bank, in your wallet, and spare change in a dish someplace, you are among the top 8% of the world's wealthy. If your parents are still alive, and still married, you are very rare, even in the United States and Canada. If you can read this message you have a double blessing in that someone is thinking of you (me) and furthermore, you are more blessed than over two billion people in the world that cannot read at all.
Someone once said: "Whatever goes around comes around. Work like you don't need the money. Love like you've never been hurt. Dance like somebody's watching. Sing like nobody's listening. Live like it's Heaven on Earth." And to that I add "Fuck like there's no tomorrow!". Something good to make you feel good. For one moment put a smile on your face and stop thinking about suicide (There are far more people in a worse situation than you). I'm trying!
See ya, hopefully with a smile on your face...
|11 Sep 2003||Thom Yorke||"Truth is not what you perceive with your senses, but what you feel in your heart."
"But there is such a thing as objective truth!" i cried. "Or don't you attach importance to that?"
He smiled tolerantly. "Not in the way you do, for its own sake. That is statistical truth. We are interested in that, yes, but only as a means of getting to the real truth underneath. For us there is very little visible truth in the world these days."
"Their Heads Are Green And Their Hands Are Blue. Scenes From The Non-Christian World."
|10 Sep 2003||Chris||Suicidal people have the habit of frequenting certain places. For example some might go to a bar and drink themselves to oblivion to forget their problems. Others may go to a suicidal friend to get the courage to commit the suicide themselves and others may go to the church to pray, forget and hope for the future. The list goes on. In the following piece I remember when I once went to the church, or was it somewhere else? When I am feeling suicidal things have the tendency of getting muddled up so try to figure out for yourself...
"I feel lucky." I said to my friend Trevor and hurried to where a fat faced friar dressed in a white coat sold indulgences in a glass wall confessional box. "Two dollars of twenty cents please." And he obliged with a flourish of hands like a priest giving a blessing, pouring the coins into my hand from a plastic holder.
At the wall I chose a statue to worship before: A machine with four rollers and playing card symbols: Ace, Joker, King, Queen (Hail Mary, Queen of Hearts), Jack, ten and nine. This was the most unforgiving machine; I always played it like a gambler with an unconscious desire for damnation. I gave myself up to prayer and actually got a pay of five coins from the first pull-- then I noticed that Trevor had followed me.
"Don't tell me you are falling for those things." Trevor said, swaying behind me. "Ah, yes, your girlfriend told me you played them here one Saturday night all through the concert happening here. Bloody idiot. When you buy anything you do so with a match-box for a deposit and play pokies, no wonder you're in financial trouble. You were always in financial bother, all your short, bloody life."
Poised with my right hand on the knob of the machine's arm and my left thumb on a coin in its slot, I glanced at Trevor over my shoulder and wondered how much he remembered about my past. And I acknowledged that he remembered everything as others remembered everything about other episodes in my life when my blemished self had betrayed my ideal self. Perhaps if I could ever have accepted that others remembered my moments of weakness I might not be here on this journey to the grave, I thought. And suddenly I realized that I could not sustain the idea of taking my own life simply to quiet the cry of self-disgust within me. To have meaning, my death must have some effect on those who increasingly saw me in terms of my weaknesses-- on Trevor, my girlfriend and the rest.
"Your girlfriend is a bitch but you forgave her in the past and you've forgiven her ever since because you've got no guts." Trevor said. I freed the coin and pulled the handle but neither the whirr of the rollers, the drone of Trevor's voice nor the clink of the two coins in the tray could drown the inner voice that cautioned: don't conjure up the repressed memories of the past. But the past was impinged as if on a screen above the machine like a distant town seen through a mirage and shimmering heat.
The past where my girlfriend betrayed me time and again, where my parents hated me, where I was put through extreme pressure at school (though I never managed to do extremely well), where I was abused physically and mentally by the teachers and the authorities in society that are supposed to help people in need and the whole past where I never had a bloody penny in my pocket. But my ideal self kept giving me this message: 'Fuck it, struggle, struggle despite all the corrupt people in the world. A better world is being hewn out by decent people.' And I tried to believe this message and therefore forgave, hoping for a better future and a better life.
"What can't you remember?" Trevor was saying, swaying but persistent like a lavatory door banging in a gale. "I remember everything." I replied, turning to focus his face and the garish room. "Listen, you've been pouring money into that machine and talking to yourself like a lunatic." "Don't tell me I've lost all my money!" I drew the wallet from inside my pocket and opened it. No, I put it under Trevor's nose. "Not to worry, mate, I've got this money set aside for a special, very important purpose, but I'll buy you a drink."
I bought two glasses of beer and we sat at a table aside. Something I had remembered when playing the poker machine- I could not now recall what it was- had led me to believe that my death must be some kind of transforming message from the dead to the living, to Trevor even. My ideal self accompanied me. His air of arrogant superiority confronted Trevor.
"Do you agree with my statement about the moral issues we have to face." I said, "about the need to confront the past?" The situation was so choicely ironic- like a fanatic from Women's Liberation advocating abortion to a nun- that I regretted I would not have the opportunity to tell all my friends about it because I was planning suicide, probably that night.
Trevor sat down, rolling back and forth in the chair until he got his balance, eyeing me malevolently. "Some people ought to talk about confronting the past. With your past, you shouldn't use that term. "How do you mean?" I said shocked. Trevor replied: "I've known you a long time. I was with you almost all your life. Sometimes, I can believe that you don't even remember your personal pasts." 'Don't let him divert you, my ideal self urged.' Of course I remembered my past but suddenly I was getting muddled up, mixing the past, present and the few hopes for the future, in this world or not. And suddenly my only problem was money. I asked Trevor to lend me but he told me that he wouldn't because I was spending them on pokies and because me and my girlfriend were the talk of the town, and he didn't want to mess up with me. So I said, no more pokies, no more drinks and no more life...
(Having transcribed this story, I sit holding the faded original in my diary- the Arafura sea scrolls, so to speak- and wondering why I wrote it and the other pieces about my past, secretly, like a man with a hidden vice. They were obviously written at different times over the years, perhaps as an excercise in self-analysis. Through them I might have sought to reconstruct myself and develop powers with which I could suppress my weaknesses. They also reveal a changing attitude towards myself, now self-deprecation, now self-heroising, and usually projecting an image of a tragic victim of circumstances. Through them, I sought to create a dialogue with myself about the private psychological life. In direct human relations I remained inacapable of revealing my inner life; I channeled my emotions into the world of ideas and politics that I believed in and lived them out there instead of with my family, girlfriend and friends. There is also a sense in which my secret writing symbolises my unconscious mind where I buried my repressed memories: most of my stories portray some agonized or shameful event which leaves a negative picture of me which I may never be able to revise because of their complexity).
So I rest my case. It is either suicide or a continuation of this fucked up, sorrowful life...
See ya all in hell!
|01 Sep 2003||Alex||Hello everyone. I wrote here about a year ago during one of my suicide moods which I used to get in swings back then. I used to get them every few days and I would log on to suicide sites every time I felt like killing myself. Since then some things have changed.... and some haven't. I find that I don't feel suicidal as often as I used to however, when I do get mad, I really go at it, often trying to slit my wrists without really killing myself (just until a little blood comes out). I found out that I was looking for a lot of attention, often trying to flaunt my "injuries" to the girls at school I liked. I've sinced tried to analyze what happens during these mood swings (it does help to be smart sometimes) and have started a suicide journal that I write in when I feel like utter shit. I still flip out about once a week and this is usually due to pressure. I am still in very tough courses including two AP classes, one of which, bio, is considered to be tougher than the average freshman college course. I'm only telling people this so they know where I'm coming from when I say I'm under a little pressure. My parents, especially my dad, insist that I will have some remarkable, thoughtful effect on the world. As soon as I hear the bullshit spew out of his mouth I just clench my teeth and think of the sweet pain on my wrists as I slide that razor up and down. That is one of the times that I get "suicidal." The other is when I think of my social life, or lack thereof. I still don't have that many friends, and even though I got a date for the christmas ball last year, I got shut down when I went for a goodnight kiss. There's this girl in Wisconsin that I met when I was out there visitng my other friend who lives there and we would probably be going out if we didn't live 1000 miles away. That was one thing that really got me was the day I got back from Wis. I missed Lauren so much, and I realized how pathetic and sad my life here is. I went at it that night and I still have marks from where I started cutting. I guess this is still a cry for help from anyone who's willing to read it. I can help myself but as this school year gets going I'm just going to get swamped by work, and the pressure is just going to build until i explode. I'm one of those people that takes all the shit from everyone else and it just piles up until one day.... and that one day is going to be bad. I'ts not like I'd go kill someone else, but I might finally make that blade a little bit sharper...|
|31 Aug 2003||Lucy Cortina||I can't get away from it!
I'm on a special lesbian-detox, and what happens? I see Madonna snogging Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera on my mini portable battery operated TV last night.
It's all so disturbing to me. I reported Felicia last week and she got sent to a special home because she attempted to commit suicide after I told her I didn't love her. I might go in and see visit her now. I might take her a few copies of Housewives Without The Husband, to cheer her up.
And maybe a copy of the latest newspaper.
There's a lovely picture of Christina Aguilera turning up at the VMA awards, dressed as a pink feather duster.
That should cheer her up.
|30 Aug 2003||Chris||Have you ever thought about who was the first person to think about a particular thing? For example, who was the first person to look at a lobster and think, "I bet that tastes just delicious" or who was the first to decide that forty plus years of your life were best spent working, only coming to an end when you are not fit to do anything else? Who was the first person to take some dough, cheese and scraps of tomato, put it in an oven and call it pizza (I would build a statue to this guy), who was the very first person to take an anti-malaria medicine and mix it with an anti-constipation drink and call it gin and tonic, thus creating one of the world's most poular drinks (another statue for this guy), who was the very first person to look at tobacco and say, "I bet that tastes good and looks cool if you smoke it" and indeed, very important, who was the first guy who had problems and said "killing myself will release me" (another statue you say)! The list goes on and on. But no other field can compete with fashion when it comes to making the most bizarre idea cool and de rigueur.
Recently I was lucky enough (I think) to be present at the birth of a new style statement. I am talking not about fashion design but those little quirks which separate the ordinary people from the mega-trendy. Remember the time when everyone wore their sunglasses suspended under their chin? Now, ask yourself, who was the first person to look into the mirror as his shades dangled from his ears and thought, "Yes!, Yes!, Yes! That's the look for the summer this year!" A year or so back there was the short lived sunglasses on the back of the head but it didn't last. What about back to front baseball caps then... what is that all about and who was the fashion guru who thought that a reversed baseball cap was to the last word in style? Pullovers tied around the neck... what can I say except that I assume someone was so hung over one morning that he couldn't manoeuvre his arms and hands through the appropriate holes in his wooly and just gave up and tied it around his neck and tootled off to work, never suspecting that he had just launched the look of the decade, condemning thousands of men to never know what their jumpers look like worn properly. Of course no Italian male over the age of seven has ever been known to wear his jacket or topcoat any other way except draped over his shoulders. Could it be that the same guy with the hangover responsible for the jumper in a knot created this one too?
But back to my experience at the birth of a new style statement. Recently while on holiday for a few days I was relaxing at an outdoor cafe, enjoying the view and equally enjoying the parade of fashionable people ambling past, when I had a shock to my system. Low and behold, sauntering down the street was a chap with his head on backwards! I can assure you that there are few things more shocking on a summery day than seeing someone approach with his head on the wrong way. But my astonishment, happily, was fleeting because as he came closer it became obvious (even to me drinking Jack Daniels and strong red wine during the hot, summery daytime) that in fact his head wasn't 180 degrees out of synchronisation but he was wearing his jacket not only draped over his shoulders but draped over his front and not his back. As you can imagine this came as a tremendous relief to me (as much on his behalf as mine), a feeling that was rapidly replaced by one of elation... for it was at this point that I realised that I was in the presence of a true trend-setter, just at the point in history when he was busy setting his new trend. If I had been a little less awe-struck I would have stopped him and asked him if he was the jumper, jacket and back to front baseball cap guy but alas all I could do was gape in admiration as he proceeded on his trendy way down the street. As you can imagine my next step (after downing my drinks) was to dash back to my room and see what my own jackets and raincoat look like draped and back to front but sad to say the result was a very poor reflection of the wizard!
So you see, some time ago I talked about my bad looks at the beach with me looking bad in baggy swim shorts and a not very sexy tan and now this! Everytime I try wearing something sexy and looking cool I fail. I am anything but a fashion guru. Summer is really suicidal!
See ya, hopefully with a jacket draped and back to front (if you look good in it)...
|04 Aug 2003||Chris||So I hear that you are on holiday dear Mouchette. That's wonderful and I want to congratulate you about it! I know that life remains suicidal but at least you can escape from the boring day to day suicidal stuff and maybe relax and forget a little...
When did we in Western Europe become such wimpy scaredy cats? Every time I open a newspaper or switch on the TV I am confronted by images of deserted departure lounges at most airports and miles of empty beaches in all of our favourite holiday haunts. I can't say that these are not things that I have not wished for in the past, but not for the reason that people are terrified of going away since September 11th 2001. We should be ashamed of ourselves (this does not go for you people who would gladly go on a plane and let it crash into some building killing you and thousands of others!), especially when we consider what past generations endured to secure the freedom to come and go as we please. Personally I refuse to be terrorised out of my holidays and if anything I want to travel more than ever before. In fact I never really harboured any deep yearning to visit the USA but I would jet off to New York City without any hesitation (given the cash and the opportunity of course) even though they have just banned smoking throughout the whole city! Come on, ask yourself this question: Where would we all be now if sixty years ago everyone decided that the world was just too scary and decided to stay in the cellar for five years? Probably we would have ended up with no computers and no Mouchette (God forbid!) If you get the chance to take a look at a newspaper from between 1939 and 1945, you will be amazed at how much 'normal' activity was going while the whole world was at war-movies, dances, prize days, garden parties and yes, even holidays were all still part of people's lives, so why should a few fanatics be allowed to make us all cower at home now, more than half a century later?
Sadly the media plays the greatest role in instilling so much fear. We now get to see everything live in our living rooms, but only what the broadcasters choose to show us. For instance SARS. Yes, I know a new disease should be a worry but try to get it into some sort of perspective. This is something that has killed a few hundred people world-wide, which doesn't really qualify it as the plague, but if you believe what you read and see on TV, then you would be forgiven for thinking that the end is nigh. The fact that people are terrified of it is entirely due to the fact that someone has decided that we should be. Compare the SARS outbreak with the fact that 3,000 children die in Africa every day from malaria, something that we do have a cure for but not the will to do anything about, and all governments should commit suicide or be killed for not doing anything (take note Mr.Bush, Blair, Chirac, etc), and you should get some idea of how scared you should really be! The sad fact is that the mortality of African kids doesn't make such dramatic TV pictures as people going to work in surgical masks. Let's take reasonable precautions by all means, but don't let terrorists and TV rob us of our feedom and sense of adventure!
So congratulations again Mouchette for having the guts to go on holiday! And for the rest, just go for it! Being on this site means that you are all suicidal, so go on holiday to forget your troubles at least for a short time and you never know, luckily a terrorist might board the plane killing you and a lot of others (if the terrorist isn't yourself after all!)...
See ya on a plane, hopefully with mask on face and gun in hand...
|14 Jul 2003||Chris||I'm back! You thought that I commited suicicide, I didn't! I don't know why but I'm still alive. Last time I wrote something for my friends at Mouchette was at sometime in April! Oh what a long time. I tried to live without Mouchette and without thinking about suicide but I ended up here again and in these hot summer months suicide is very much almost at the top of the agenda!
Summer is really with us again and along with all of the excellent things that the long hot months bring such as barbecues, beers by the beach, busy bars and restaurants and long drinks during the long hot evenings, come the usual (for me anyway) disastrous things. What do I mean? Well, for instance, every year I buy a new pair of swimming shorts and every year I look less like like the guy in the brochure illustrating them. It doesn't matter what I do I can't make my legs look good in a pair of shorts. Which leads me to the next problem...
A suntan! For some reason unknown to the modern scientific world my body refuses to tan, I just turn a vivid, ugly pink then go back to my normal sickly pallor. Every summer I have arguments with sexy girls about the fact that I try to spend at least several hours in the sun at the weekend in my vain attempt to get a healthy colour, while ten minutes at the beach is about their limit. They turn a gorgerous golden brown while I remain a patchwork of varying shades of pink. Which leads me to my next problem...
Tummies! Everyone is obsessed by their stomach during the summer, I for one have now practically perfected the art of speaking while sucking in my belly button till it almost meets my spine, so if you encounter a little guy at the beach who looks as if he is critically constipated and is speaking in short gasps, don't worry, it's only me trying to pretend that I am Brad Pitt!
To make matters worse and even summer (where I should be enjoying my holidays) more suicidal I have to put up with the regular beach perverts and freaks. Where do these guys go for the winter months? Wherever it is they are back again every June through October gracing our beaches with their antics. You know the chaps I mean, they are to be found not more than two metres away from any attractive female on the beach (under eighty and in possession of a pulse qualifies as attractive in their book apparently) staring fixedly at her while practising their juggling under their towel, at least that's what it looks like they are up to anyweay! And can anyone tell me why it is that in these times of gender equality women don't behave like this when they see young men at the beach? I've certainly never been pestered but I imagine my ugly pink legs sticking out of the baggy shorts, my hopeless suntan and my growing tummy are explanation enough for that lack of attention.
I come up with only two real solutions. The first one is suicide! The second is, (now that I've heard from Felicia that Lucy has become a surgeon), surgery, you know, just take away some fat, create some built up body and somehow some sexy tan. The last idea (which is not a solution at all) is like Kurt Cobain said "I am ugly but (at least) so are you"
P.S I cannot give an e-mail address right now because of some problems.
See you all in hell, at a surgeon or disgustingly on the beach!
|12 Jul 2003||Phil||Good morning Charlie! Or good morning Moucchie, rather!! Ok time to get this serious, this aint charlies angels. I dont have an amazing ass like Cameron Diaz. I am not an amazing and beautiful singer like britney spears. oh hang on... shes not an amazing singer, thats right.
She came from a mickey mouse show and now christina aguilera is fisting her and riding on motorbikes..
even I can do better.
no i cant. well, i wanna organise a suicide group pact. I want to get the biggest group together ever to do a suicide. like in the Simpsons with David Blaine and they all died in front of the white house.
this may not be as glamourous.. but we can all die in front of Britney Spears' hotel room... and give her a shock.
It wont be long before she gets drunk on a park bench after poor record sales, and tops herself.
|07 Jul 2003||perverts should all be KILLED||I have been hurting inside for 2 yrs now. i was abused by my best friend's dad. i felt worthless and he told me it was my fault, he took something so precious away for me so i felt i didnt want to go on. on christmas day i took 20 pills and then cut my wrists i dont know how i managed to survive but i did. so for months i cut myself it felt like the pain from my arms took the pain away form me hurting inside then i started college and met my boyfriend and everything got better, then last night happened i had my drink spiked and my uncle took advantage of me and blacked out so i dont know what happened but my boyfiend walked in and saw it now were not talking so now my arms are bleeding again and i have no pills left i fucking took then if u hadnt guessed already they lighting doesnt stik twice well i it does. TO ALL THE GIRLS OUT THERE BE CAREFUL ITS A BIG BAD WORLD OUT. AS THE PERVERT SAID TO ME LIFE IS LIKE A BED OF ROSES JUST MIND OUT FOR THE PRICKS! he said that just b4 he abused me|
|27 Jun 2003||MAC CHRISTOPHER||What do I search for to answer the questions? My hope is that any reasons other than terminal illness that involves extreme pain can be overcome with care and thoughtful dialogue. I've been dealing with extreme depression for almost 30 years and constant pain for over 20 - but I can still find valid and hope-filled reasons to stay alive another day.|
|13 Jun 2003||christine||what is the best way to kill yourself when your under 13, who gives a fuck! this a ridiculous and stupid thing to ask. The fucking site was made by sick fuckers! absolutely sick!!! who ever you are you have no fucking idea about life. life is never that bad, i have been in that position, thinking its all bad, but i know that no matter what i wouldn't do that to my family.
my god bless anyone who read this
|12 Jun 2003||chris||hands down, the easiest way to kill yourself is to watch wheel of fortune for two weeks straight. it will drive you to do anything to end it all.|
|11 Jun 2003||Ambrosja||When you are under 13 (or over 13 for that matter) you should consider seeking help from an adult and/or a professional. The need to commit suicide is the result of chemical imbalances in the system and this can be corrected. Sometimes the situation corrects itself as hormones shift and level out... other times the desire to die will not disappear. I started wanting to commit suicide when i was 10 years old, right about the same time that i started my period. I remained suicidal throughout high school, but by my early 20's, the depression began to lessen. Sure, i have my days, but i don't focus on it so much as to actively seek ways to die. The best thing to do when you start to feel depressed is to take action on whatever it is that seems to be troubling you the most. Proactivity is a great remedy for many of life's problems. For those that want to kill themselves out of guilt, please remember that guilt is something that has been manufactured by christian based belief systems. The laws of life are not based on such belief systems. For those that feel suicidal due to disease, don't be ashamed to seek help. Doctors are not put here to judge, but to help. I can see myself in so many of you and i hope you can find a way to reach out for help. hang in there.|
|10 Jun 2003||christine||why would you want an under 13year old to kill themself, they are too young|
|02 Jun 2003||Felicia was rescued by Lucy||It has been exposed. The #1 killer of the brain is excessive television with numerous amounts of reality shows involving "contests with boobies", The subliminal messages in those shows during commercial breaks are quite harmful. You see skinny attractive youths on cell phones, bandashering their silicone filled boom booms and bare midrift tubbies. Some of the teenage girls say, "Look at me! Look at me! I can flash my cute pertly titties! ( I see Lucy doing the same on the sidelines here.)" Of course the little boys get horny, and here I am feeling, very, very, "without". It so bothersome sometimes as I turn off the set and head of to the market to purchase a pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream after a brief commercial. On the way home, I pull out a drawer, peel the ice cream lid and start scooping. Then I start crying.... and then I start scooping, because my boobs aren't big enough. I head up the stairs and look in my drawer of "not nots" and "what nots" then all of a sudden, out of the drawer appeared a set of water boobies that Lucy Cortina bought for me last Christmas. I sniffed it slowly since it still had the scent of plastic, placed it beneath my bra, pushed up my boom booms and shook again to the rap song of "Baby Got Rack!"
As daring as I was, I drove to the record store wearing a tight top and curvy belly midrift pants. The guys did stop and stare... Yes... I saw a set of long, longs, across the way. The cashier at the front of the store rung up my cd and all he stared at was my breasts. I then looked up and found he was handsome and hand a long, long.
It was then that he asked me out for coffee.
Thanks, Lucy Cortina, SS Double Agent 00,
I love you!!!! Thanks for saving my life...
By the way, what's up with Billy the Freak?
|29 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||It disgusts me how pornographic radio advertising has become these days.
I just heard an ad on my radio that read: "It is I, Big John from Corellia Cars. Our prices are oh oh OH so low, and all the cars have long warranties..." then a woman replied:
"Really Big John, is that all u can think about? Nice cars with 'long warranties'?"
It's a disgrace. My sister listens to the radio cos she likes all the dancey and catchy songs. Then Christina Aguilera is on singing about how she likes getting "dirrty".
Well, my sister is dirty enough thank you very much!!! That fucken bitch Christina is brainwashing her.
Do you people now understand why a girl like me is on a website like this?
Just a girl, do not desert me like my selfish boobies did. There will be one less pair of boobs in this world if you do what u plan, and there are never enough boobies, just like there's not enough blood.
In fact they should put out adds asking for boobie donations along with blood donations.
|06 May 2003||Lucy Cortina||Note to Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears et all: Don't bother with the all year tannning crap.
Do what I did, overdose on Vitamin C tablets.
I am ready to take the entertainment world by storm.. once these breasts grow back.