|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?
|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.
|29 Apr 2003||Chris||LUCY CORTINA- I know you're always fussing about your enormous breasts. So here it is, I've found you a job where you can use your breasts at maximum capacity. Why don't you become a (drum roll please)... prostitute! Men (including me) love large breasts and in case you are thinking that yours are too enormous to handle I have found you a solution also. Recently in a newspaper dated Tuesday, April 8, 2003 I read this article, which if you are interested you can use. Here it goes..
Hanky Panky sex school
The former madam of a Dutch escort agency has opened a Hanky Panky school for prostitutes to teach the world's oldest profession how to make more money.
Elene Vis-whose frank autobiography "Escort Queen with Turbopower" made her a Dutch tabloid darling-opened the school last week in a luxury Amsterdam canal house to offer prostitutes exclusive sales training to boost their business.
Come on Lucy. Apart from the standard "up the ass treatment", "through the cunt treatment" and the "blowjob treatment" you can offer "wobbly breast suck treatment" or "hide and seek, try to find your hidden dick between my breasts treatment", and other Lucy specialities. If you are thinking about the SSSS missions don't worry. You couldn't do better than become a prostitute. When men are having sex with beautiful girls with large breasts, you'll be surprised how easy you can suck out information out of them. They are high, they don't know what they are doing or saying and they will tell you anything you want to know. Come on Lucy, you know it makes sense, you will make more money, your breasts will find peace because they will realise that they are useful, it helps the SSSS and the prostitute school bill is on the SSSS.
See ya in a brothel!
|17 Apr 2003||Chris||I know you want to kill yourself but I also know that you feel relieved and satisfied when you hear about other people dying. I just wrote this story especially for you. Read on if you've got the guts. Here's...
The Three Little Piggies
The Wilsons needed to go out
So they left Andrea about
She had to look after two boys
She had to put away their toys
If she got hungry she could eat
She could have anything indeed
They would be back by half past one
And she would do all to be done,
She played with the boys (and put away their toys)
She gave them to eat (and left everything neat)
She put them to sleep (and they slept very deep)
She then was relaxed (and could do what she pleased)
Stepping out of her red shoes
She went in the kitchen to have some booze
There was wine, brandy, vodka and beer
And then there was whisky, so bright and so clear
She chose Jack Daniels, you know it's the best
But then she mixed it with some of the rest
She sat relaxed by the warmth of the fire
Sipping her drink with no other desire
She began feeling tired and was thinking of bed
But then there was ringing around in her head
't was the telephone, so noisy, so damned
As she picked it up, the other end slammed
It was a wrong number, like she wished it would be
For she didn't want to talk, not to you, nor to me
But then sleep had gone, she switched on the T.V
Where there was sound,life and a sweet melody
Things became cheery, but then became eery
For the phone rang again and again and again!
Hello. This is Five-seven-four-double two...
Can you please tell me who the fuck are you?
An insane laugh came came down the phone
It chilled every nerve and chilled every bone
"There were three little piggies, Oh what fun!
Two were disembowelled, then there was one!"
"Go to hell!", Andrea screamed
The other voice laughed, the other voice beamed
She began feeling nervous, said she needed a smoke
She believed it will help you in avoiding a stroke
Something good, something great, perfect and smooth
Marlborlo, nicotine, cover your lungs in sooth
The phone rang again, Andrea felt mad
She felt very sick and she felt very bad
When she picked up the phone there was the gruff voice
He told her "I'll get you, you just have no choice!"
She slammed down the phone and started to yell
"Why doesn't this pervert go somewhere in hell?"
She picked up the phone, dialled the operator
"Can you please trace a call of a damned perpetrator?
My number is five-seven-four-double two five
And I wish that this pervert just wasn't alive!"
"I am concerned" Mrs.Operator was saying
"But you're paid to work, not concerning or praying!"
Andrea sat back, feeling calm and relieved
Buit she soon got to know that she was deceived
The phone rang and rang; the gruff voice again
He wished her bad luck, he wished her some pain
"There was one little piggy, oh what fun!
Her throat was slit, then there was none!"
Lighting up a cigarette, Andrea paced the room
She was watching the phone, she was waiting for doom
Finally it rang, but it was Mrs.Operator
She wanted to ask a question as an investigator
"Do you have another phone in the house where you are staying?"
"Why, yes, there's one with the boys, but what the fuck are you saying?"
Mrs.Operator talked in a frightened tone
"Whoever has been calling has been using that phone
Run out of the house, there's not much you can do
It can be a joke, it can be very true!"
Half stumbling and half running, she went on the way out
Opening the kitchen door, she gave a real, big shout
The sight which met her bulging eyes
Sent her vomiting in surprise
A huge man looking grotesque
Was nothing but very picturesque
Like wading through a flood
Of very red, hot blood
He was spluttered and stained with a blood spattered chopper in one hand...
Something steamy, hot and with a sticky smell in the other hand...
On the top of the stairs, the boys (or what was left of them)...
They had been disembowelled and their insides completely cleaned out...
Slowly the man moved towards Andrea, leaving behind a trail of blood...
What a pervert I am for writing this, and what perverts you are for reading it, but wait- Isn't this exactly what American and British soldiers are doing to little Iraqi childrens. Imagine it the other way. A small Iraqi child disembowelling Bush & Blair and then slitting Saddam Hussein's throat (those three little piggies-you know that everything they do is out of greed). Oh, what days of glory I dream about...
|13 Apr 2003||Lucy Cortina||Billy, I like the style of your quotation marks better than mine. Where did you get them? Why can't I have any?
it's ok for you, you can just have a little implant to give yourself tits if you wanted to. No one cares for girls wanting quotation marks. Hmmphh!
Oh, my latest mission, by the way, is to investigate the theft of Britney Spears' breast implants (god forbid!), and the theft of Kylie Minogue's underwear collection. There was also mention of an attempted raid on Christina Aguilera's mansion. I think someone wsas trying to steal her makeup collection. She wears so much of it that it is worth billions, as she only buys in bulk.
I will inform you all of the results. Well, I suspect the results would be that Christina would never leave the house again. Britney would use a ballon pump to fill her fakie-less tits with air, and Kylie would just wear no underwear. Which some people might like...
|11 Apr 2003||Chris Perez/Sick boy||Take ten nighquils. then sleep away. YAY!
and don't forget to dream of sex.
|07 Apr 2003||Lucy Cortina||As I sat eating breakfast this morning - 1 sausage ad 2 boiled eggs (*oh!*) - I had a sudden, and shocking moment of fearful realisation. My inflatables (breasts, that is - what else?) are ENORMOUS. I have become accustomed to sellotaping two bin bags together as a bra fow a while now, yet this is not what I see when the modern singers of today perform on music shows, like Christina Aguilera. That's because she doesn't have a bra - she never wears any clothes.
I flicked through my copy of Spanking Digest, but found nothing. So I picked up my latest copy of Incontinence Weekly and spotted the page I was looking for:
"Psychic Pam - able to read the cosmic breastial powers, and tell you things about yourself that you already know".
The phone number was £50 a minute, but as I was depertae (and I can foward the bill to Super Secret Spy Sex), I tapped in the number on my phone.
The tones for each number are different, so to amuse myself I tried playing "Frere Jacques" on the keypad, when suddenly a stern voice yelled "I am not able to read your breasts at the moment, I am dealing with a client named Pamela Anderson". Here we go I thought, I will be on this phone waiting all day if she's reading Pammy's tits. A tune started playing on the phone. It was Britney Spears' hit "Baby one more time". I ran into the cupbord, grabbed my old school uniform and did the dance moves to this incredible work-of-art of-a-song. By the time the psychic answered the phone, I was sweating like a waterfall and my breasts had already shrunk 3 sizes. And it hit me! They only needed a little of the gas inside them releasing! I guess you could call them little "breast farts". And the dancing had helped the wind escape. So, my breasts have farted, and shrunk, all because of a Britney Spears record (It shocked me too!). I guess I better follow the wise one and book myself into a clinic as soon as possible. No tits = no career. Although Britney is the biggest tit I have ever seen, so I guess that's a contraception. I mean contradiction!
There's never a happy end to a happy ending!
|02 Apr 2003||Chris||Some say that we're insane because we talk about suicide. I'll prove them wrong. We are living a fucked up life in a fucked up world with fucked up people (like George.W.Bush & Saddam Hussein) all around. Here's what these people do and here's....
The De-Creation Story
In the beginning was the earth,
and the earth was beautiful
But the people living on the earth said,
"Let us build skyscrapers
So they paved the earth with concrete
and said "It is good!"
On the second day,
the people looked at the rivers and said
"Let us dump our sewage into the waters."
So they filled the waters with sludge
and said "It is good!"
On the third day,
the people looked at the forests and said,
"Let us cut down the trees
and build things."
So they leveled the forests
and said "It is good!"
On the fourth day
the people saw the animals and said,
"Let us kill them for sport and money."
So they destroyed the animals
and said "It is good!"
On the fifth day
the people felt the cool breeze and said,
"Let us burn our garbage
and let the breeze blow it away."
So they filled the air with carbon
and said "It is good!"
On the sixth day,
the people saw other nations and said,
"Let us build missiles
in case misunderstandings arise."
So they filled the land with missile sites
and said "It is good!"
On the seventh day,
the earth was quiet and deathly silent
for the people were no more
And it was good!
You see!, your own neighbour is trying to kill you! Why give him the satisfaction? Kill yourself and if possibly your enemy with you. Glory to the Iraqi who blew himself up and another four American soldiers with him!
On a different note:
After having one of mine in the 'favourite' section I think it's high time I gave you my e-mail address. Drop a line on anything I write or anything you want at GuziChris@hotmail.com
|30 Mar 2003||Chris||Previously I have written suicide ways which I frankly don't know why they have been put in the 'cruel jokes' section. Sometimes suicide is not necessary and it's better to kill the people bugging you than yourself. Here are...
Five Ways To Kill A Man
There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man
You can make him carry a plank of wood to the top of a hill and nail him to it.
To do this properly you require a crowd of people wearing sandles, a cock that crows, a cloak to dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and one man to hammer the nails home.
Or you can take a length of steel,
shaped and chased in a traditional way,
and attempt to pierce the metal cage he wears.
But for this you need white horses,
English trees, men with bows and arrows,
at least two flags, a prince, and a castle to hold your banquet in.
Dispensing with nobility, you may, if the wind allows
blow gas at him. But then you need
a mile of mud sliced through with ditches,
not to mention black boots, bomb craters,
more mud, a plague of rats, a dozen songs
and some round hats of steel.
In an age of aeroplanes, you may fly
miles above your victim and dispose of him by pressing one small switch. All you then require is an ocean to separate you, two systems of government, a nation's scientists, several factories, a psychopath and land that no one needs for several years.
These are, as I began, cumbersome ways
to kill a man. Simpler, direct, and much more neat is to see that he is living somewhere in the middle of the twentieth century, and leave him there.
If these Five ways are too complicated, suicide is the way......
|18 Mar 2003||Chris||Sharpen two pencils very sharply, stick one in each nostril and bang your fuckin head on something hard. the pencils will just shoot up into your head and you'll be dead in seconds but be careful: if you don't make it proper it might hurt!!|
|09 Mar 2003||Felicia||Apologies to Lucy Cortina:
I started looking at my small specks. The jealousy of trying to compete with Lucy was utterly sad. Now she is mad at me. I always felt like the Jan Brady and she was the Marsha. "Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!" I screamed out in my head, but it was useless. To find solace, I had to seek the box of water-bras that Lucy gave me for Christmas. In the card, it read "with caring thoughts, Lucy". A tear streak fell out of the corner of my eye because I discovered jealousy can bring such an ugly face. I couldn't help that night when Lucy went out with a Knight, at the Royal French Palace in Paris. Lucy was stunningly beautiful with the crowd and showed such grace and poise. Then a Knight by the name of McKellar, took her sequined satin, precious diamond studded, gloved hand on to the dance floor. There I stood, amoungst the crowd as everybody gazed at the handsome couple. There was Billy staring at the handsome pair with his ear to ear grin. I tugged at Billy's coat tail but he failed to recognize me. I said, "Billy...Billy...Billy!" as crowds roared and cheered to the sway of the music. Still, he never heard me. Disgruntled, I took off, far from site to the back of the Palace and gazed at the moon from the balcony. The beautiful music played into the night. Then I started to cry like I never did before. It seemed I lost a sister and a friend, because of a joke I wrote in the post editorial one day. It suddenly was published and Lucy read it. Her shock was more than shock, so she shook with horror when I came to visit for tea at the Palace one morning. She yelled at me and said, "Felicia! Young lady, do you work for a tabloid?" I said, "No." "Well, then don't write anything about anybody if it isn't nice to say!" I said, "I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!" To be told that I was like a reporter or the paparazzi was bad enough. I felt like the telemarketer of the media. I ran from the Palace to cool off and gather some thoughts. A few days later, I wheel barreled a crate filled with petals and daisies. I lay them on the ground in front of the palace so Lucy and her Knight and shining armor can see that I placed them in caring words a mile long. It read, "I'm sorry Lucy Cortina for the miserable things I've said and please forgive me." I am standing by the castle right now. But neither Lucy or her Knight read it because they have been busy for a long time. It's taking days.
The clock keeps ticking. The story continues.
|31 Jan 2003||Lucy Cortina||(in olden days before christ)
"Oh yes" screamed the girl, "stick it in!!!" The handsome prince was busy with his ravishment of cinderella. Or was it sleeping beauty? Anyway, she was a princess. The angels of darkness, the dark riders and Lord Saaron himself were in pursuit of the 2 lovers. They had found thongs and g-strings strewn about the landscape of Mordor in their pursuit of the pair. No, not Lucy's breasts, THE RUNAWAYS! They searched far and wide, and among the scattered tampons - and even an erotic toy - they found a ring. The ring. What a ring it was! It would lead them to the couple.
But alas! using her super strong bras, Lucy and the prince had made catapults and were flinging dildo missiles at the crew following them. Saaron and his crew were dead in seconds...
(2003, UK, A Psychiatric unit)
As the prince and the lady embraced at their survival against Saaron back in the olden days, in 2003 a girl named Lucy lay in her bed in an in-patient unit as the doctors cured her of her schizophrenia. Slowly her visions were no more, and the tales of Mordor and breasts were nothing more than a fleeting memory of the past. No more breasts, no more Willy's, no more sisters.
Just Lucy again.
|21 Jan 2003||Felicia||I was just walking by the in-patient unit to drop by a basketful of purple, pink, and yellow daisies to Lucy. There she was on the phone talking to a tampon company, complaining that the Procter & Gamble establishment was cutting off her lifetime supply of "weaved cotton, stop-leak protection". Procter & Gamble, were filing for Chapter 7 Bankruptcy, and willing to charge their faithful customers, promising discounts on free samples, to make extra cash. The profit margin didn't look great in Wallstreet. Dow Jones decided that supply and demand was at an all time low for tampon companies. Recently, most of their customers got spayed at the nearest animal clinic to cut the costs of hospital bills. But not Lucy, she kept all her equipment and cherished her wondrous bosoms. The Christina Aquilera sound-alike on the phone for Procter & Gamble customer service, was a ditzy blonde look-alike with a Britney Spears mentality and the ass the size of Kylie Minogue's or was it J.Lo? Oh gosh! My memory is going dead! Anyways, Lucy, it was rumored that Procter & Gamble was indeed a behind the scenes gypsy "cult" and their only Oracle is an Ouija board. My dear friend, stay away from these people, because they will scam you for every penny that you have.|
|18 Jan 2003||Lucy Cortina||Life at my inpatient unit is SUCH a blast. It's more like a youth hostel rather than a psychiatric unit.
Spying on a vegie-lezbo "doing her bits" in the bathroom alone excites me to an almost orgasmic state.
It may be unhealthy for a teenage, deeply curved, busty girl to develop obsessions with nurses, but hey-ho! I'm Lucy, I do as I please!
One of the nurses has a "third tit" - a yukky mole on her face. She's such a sad old bag. I tried to take a pic of the third tit as evidence, but couldnt bear the thought of being exposed to a bra-less tit on a face as cratered as Mars.
Anyway, from tits to 'down belows' - the only UK Tampax factory is closing down! (makers of English tampons). I was on the phone for over 2 hours today, waiting to complain. It was an automated phone service.
"To speak to an operator who is very nice, but no help at all, press 1.
To be cut off for no apparant reason, press 2.
To speak to an over-enthusiastic office girl, press 3..."
and so on, and so on. When I finally got through to complain, a voice - eerily similar to Christina Aguilera's - said in a sweet tone: "I'm sorry, we no longer produce tampons. Good day to you".
So I'm here all alone and tampon-less. Thanks to Christina Aguilera. She insists that people get "Dirrty".
Bang goes my chances with Billy...
|02 Jan 2003||Felicia||Lucy, I'm surprised you left so early to catch the Pan Am 3:13 pm flight to LAX airport from San Francisco and took the Pan Am first class at 9:00p.m. to New York and an adjacent flight to London, a day before Christmas Eve. Hope the jet lag isn't ruining your beauty sleep. A check for $161.07 USD? You can send it in attention to Mr. Frank Abagnale J.R's trust fund. If you can catch him if you can. Besides, you should save it for an affair to remember in Paris or for those Agent Provocateur lingerie modeling assignment photoshoots. Be sure to do a side shot like Kylie Minogue on a bucking, mechanical bronco. Just don't let the Margaret Thatcher look-alike intimidate you because of your nice swinging nuggas. Before you reach for the box of diet sugar-free bonbons tonight dear, Happy New Years for 2003. Please don't feed any chocolates to George. You may need a lead and pulley to deter his addiction to Toblerone chocolates. Steer him far away ...far, far away from the Belgian chocolates. You know George cannot eat "just one".|
|31 Dec 2002||Felicia||We were at Union Square in San Francisco, Lucy Cortina and I. She saw my downtrodden face as I gazed upon my small bosoms. She was truly blessed. We went into Victoria's Secret and saw laying upon a shelf...Low and behold...a box of fake rubber boobies (fakies shall we say?) They were displayed in two colors: porcelain shade and tan. I took the tan beauties out of the box, slowly, like...like, they were "My precious". I felt the texture of the fakies and had wishful thoughts of wearing them, forever. The rubber was so pliable and there among the tips of each one was a fake nipple. I told Lucy that I would be in the fitting room trying them on. In the fitting room under the incandescent lighting, I slipped each fake boobie under an underwire bra. They stuck out all right, like a twenty-one gun salute. Then, I shook them and became ecstatic because they looked so real. So I decided I'll take it. At the register, I took out my wallet to pay for the fakies and black underwire bra, but to my horrific horror, a piece of hair lint and a moth came out of my wallet. The cashier was very impatient and looked unimpressed. Out of pure embarrassment I said, "Omigawd!!" and hollered "I forgot the eighty dollars that Billy left on my dresser!! Augh!!" Well, I remembered that one day, Billy took in an old friend that was down in his luck to my apartment. The next thing you know, the old man was gone, well anyways, Lucy felt really bad for me, so she purchased the fakies and the black underwire bra. I said, "No Lucy! You shouldn't have!" She stared at me as if I were crazy, so I gave her a big hug. To this day I am still wearing my fakies and the black underwire bra. They are the best Christmas presents I ever had! Thank you dear Lucy, my Angel of Mercy! Should I wear them tonight for the Exotic Erotic Ball at San Francisco? Am I going to meet the Prince of my dreams?
Where are you?!!
|29 Dec 2002||Lucy Cortina||Bloody Hell. Mouchette you must be drunk out of your mind on Schnapps to allow the peasants to re-enter our Boudoire of Sauciness. Who the hell needs bloomin' poetry? It's just a poor man's rap. Anyone could do it - here, let me try:
"I waddled to the loo.
And then I had a poop.
I sprayed my little can,
now the air don't smell like a man (ie - v. stinky)"
There. Look out Eminem, Lucy Cortina, nu Raunchy-Rap-Queen is gonna beat you to pulp.
I should be so lucky. I've eaten too many mince pies this Christmas, which means my waist-line has increased, which in turn means that my breasts have inflated slightly. I look like Pamela Anderson in space. Still, a full figure isn't always a bad thing. Now there's even more of me to love. As if you didn't already have enough.
Some religious nutters have created the first cloned baby recently, apparently. I would gladly donate half of my breasts to them so they could sculpt a head and a few arms and legs from them (they are very firm, you know). All they need is a propper human brain to go with them. Hey, didn't they keep Albert Einstein's brain pickled in a jar after he died? - they could use that! Although, perhaps the scientists in charge ate it with some chips and a pickled egg.
What is the world coming to?
|17 Dec 2002||robert||DANCE: Pour an increasingly large amount of bleach into every orofice of your little body: wriggle until you can move no longer. Make sure your Dad video tapes your performance. Make sure your mum provides the bleach. Dance for your grandparents on the table you ate Christmas dinner. Wear the headband your auntie bought you.|
|15 Dec 2002||auguste fontaine III jr.||under 13 what ? elehants ? spells ? meters tall ? days from christmas ? 13 % homofobic ? under 13 criminal charges ? 1259 ?|