|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?
|03 Oct 2003||Leanne2Chris||Yes Chris, unfortunately those kisses were infact intended all for you. I'm afraid you're stuck with them for all eternity...
You see peeps, I'm one of those who love affection. I'm the kind to relish long hugs and cuddles that last for minutes, the kind to love tender sweet kisses that manage to find and grab onto my soul. But I'm also the kind who rarely receives any of this meaningful compassion. I can give it, no probs there, I'm just not so good at the receiving bit.
I take a lot of shit from people. When a 'friend' gets dumped, there I appear with open arms, a shoulder to cry on and a king-size chocolate bar handy. Or when another 'dear friend' has lost her 'gang', there I appear, as a substitute in the playground until she spots them. I also take any opportunity to defend my 'mates' when being bitched about in the girls' toilets. "Got a couple of quid you can lend me, Lea?" "Yeah, sure." I reply. It's never 'NO'. I don't have the guts to even pretend I don't have any money on me. I do this for two reasons 1)I never eat lunch and 2)Even fake friends are better than none at all.Or is it?
I was lying in bed this dull afternoon, remembering of a time years ago, thinking back to when suicide and depression were unheard of in my dictionary. This dates back to when I was 11. How funny I used to be, what a lively soul, what a zest for life, waking up every morning knowing I wanted to live through the next 24hrs, unlike how it is now. I was hilarious back in the day, making my friends laugh, my family crack up, the teachers too. When somebody asked "and how is Leanne today?" I even managed to turn that into a joke of some sort. I was the wild, cray and wacky girl. I guess I still am, except no longer in that adorable positive sense. I made them laugh with my jokes, but things have changed. They no longer laugh WITH me, because now I am the fucking joke. I've forgotten the sound of my own laugh. When I fake one it makes me cringe. I'm not sure the muscles around my mouth are strong enough now to perform such a painful task as a smile. They've grown weak, for I have grown weak. But one thing's for sure, one thing I never did for friends.. (this one's for you Chris)... I never left kisses in their Christmas cards. For every year I'd purchase a box of '200 cards for £1.99'. I'd hand them out and each person would say "Oh, um Leanne, I've um, forgotten yours at home." They said the same thing for the last five christmases.
Chris, I beg you, do me a favour, get your stuff published, please. The way you write is a turn on. I wanna walk in a bookshop and see your name in the 'Bestsellers' section. I need your writings like a vehicle needs fuel. These are for you ..Mwah Mwah xx
|03 Oct 2003||irena||throw yourself through balcony in front your parents|
|02 Oct 2003||East Side Trader dont fuck with me||Listen up i want one of you kids to talk to me about this really i do. trust me i know how it is, my parents kicked me out at 12yrs old, i lived on the streets, i do to many drugs but i shotup, joined a gang, and i got the great feeling of taking anothers life. you may have an idea what its like not to have anyone care about you except, that your a hook up. i tried killing myself with 23 muscle relaxers and somehow i pulled through. when i woke up (on the street curb just as lonely as i had started) i realized all life is, its all about 2nd chances ok .man today i still do alot of drugs and im in a gang. now you kids might think your parents dont care.. i was kicked out with nothing but pants and a knife .well i took it for years having no one care about me but other members and to this day thats the only family i have .see you all think that noone cares and all this, but listen i know how it is not to fit in. i found somewhere to fit in, i know its not the best place but with all the shit i do, with what ive done, im still greatful to be alive nowadays. i have ppl that want to kill me and no doubt they will but thats how it goes your life will end but you cant be the one to do it ... listen you kids that " hate" your parents and all that. i know how that is but i wish i still had mine... see i was the one that ended my parents lives when i was merely 16yrs of age i took some bars a lil coc, loaded my 38 special, walked into what was once my home and shot them both in cold blood. if you all think you have bad things on you mind because some girl doesnt like you or you get picked on at skool always remember there are always people out there alot worse off and will always be .. for you kids who have to run the streets like me ... sorry|
|02 Oct 2003||Chris||I hear those who read the first two parts of my diary on 10th and 23rd September ask me: "What happened after the truck driver dropped you off?" So I decided to post another part of my diary. Read on...
After the truck driver dropped me off I walked a little until I saw a sign saying- RedRock Hotel- 1/2 mile- Meals And Accomodation- and all I wanted to do was climb out of my wet clothes and into a warm bed.
Old fashioned shops with peeling verandah posts- hardware, paints and wallpapers. An air of decay. The town square wide and dark. A stone house dimly visible, grim and grey with three archways in front of it, at the centre of the square a quaint stone edifice with a drinking fountain and clocktower. A sign on the right indicated Rifle Club- Cemetry. Once a friend had proposed to me to go to a rifle club to ease my anger and excercise it on something by shooting. Now that I had found the road to a rifle club it also led to the cemetry.
Nearly midnight; the time brought me back to reality. Only eight hours since I left home and so much had happened. To me those eight hours seemed like an epoch. The new highway bypassed the small village and left it to die. I had chosen it as the place where I should transcend myself. Or perhaps it had chosen me?
RedRock Hotel. A double-storied building on the left. Coach lamps retained as decorations, and wrought iron around the upstairs balcony. The windows were in darkness but the Private Entrance Door was open. My rain-soaked trousers clung uncomfartably to my skin. The toe of my right shoe counted the steps. The umbrella became snagged in the jamb so I lowered it. I could make up a hatstand and hall cupboard to the right and the under-belly of a stairway beyond; the gloom was relieved by a line of light ruled across the carpet to the left. I felt for the wall with my left hand, edged along it and, after hesitating to compose a story, knocked with the knuckle of my index finger.
Soon, the door opened and I started back at the sight of a thick-set man of doubtful age wearing a polo-necked jumper of doubtful colour. He also seemed startled and no wonder; I must have been a strange sight for his sly, shrewd eyes standing there with dishevelled hair, drenched trousers, dripping umbrella and only a brief-case for luggage. "What do you want?" he asked. "A room for the night." "That's all the luggage you got?" "A truck driver who was giving me a lift and when he felt like it just kicked me out because he was drunk!" "Where?" "On the highway".
He seemed unconvinced but stepped past me, threw a switch in the hall to reveal a sign Office beyond the foot of the stairs. He walked ahead of me and passed through a flap in the office counter. "You were lucky to find me up and I don't get out of bed for travellers who stray in from the night." He had opened the tattered guest register. "What's your name?" I found my friend's name Trevor on the tip of my toung; 'Trevor...' I swallowed it and instead gave a fictitious name made up of my own initials and a fictitious address. The publican gazed searchingly and asked: 'Occupation?" "Student who likes to travel around." His manner became ingratiating, the better, I suspected to probe me, seeking satisfaction for his curiosity: "Dirty night to be stranded. How do you travel?" "Mainly hitch hikes, buses, trains, anything really". "Bed and breakfast, room eight."
I paid him, thinking, just as well I got that bloody jackpot at the casino, and took the key. "How's life?" he asked, then added with mock solicitousness: "You're soaked. When you put your pyjgamas on bring your clothes down to dry by the warmth of the fire." Of course, I had no pyjgamas and smiled wryly at the thought of coming downstairs in short underpants carrying a wet suit, then grimly when I thought: 'I might get a cold or influenza or pneumonia (a man who worries about getting sick when he is planning to kill himself within twenty-four hours can't be all mad).
"I'll be all right, mate" I said. But I'd like to warm myself by the fire for a while, if you don't mind. Sorry to be a nuisance." The lounge room was as crowded as a second-hand furniture shop with tables, chairs, sofas all bulky and old-fashioned. The walls were defaced with smoke-stained paintings of landscapes, flowers, and horses with curved necks. We sat in huge leather chairs on either side of the hearth. I took my shoes off and placed my legs close to the open fire until steam began to rise.
He threw a log on the fire, jabbed it with a poker and sat, legs out-stetched, chin in fists. From time to time, he asked a well-chosen question about my studies, and he even recommended from where I could easily get a lift for home in the morning. But he eventually feigned a yawn and announced that it was past his bedtime. "Put the screen around the fire before you go up," he said, convinced or at least resigned. "Breakfast is from seven until eight-thirty. Turn left at the top of the stairs: room eight is on the left at the end of the corridor." I stood and turned my back to the fire to dry the other side of my trousers and socks, and when its glow had faded, put my shoes back on, screened the fire and groped my way up the stairs and found room eight. Unlocking the door with difficulty, I entered and found the light switch on the right.
So it had come to this. An isolated hotel room, pokey and small, (about twelve feet by eight)- cold, and in the middle of nowhere. Floral curtains over a small window in front of me. I shut the window and tried to lock it. The latch didn't work and it rattled against the wind. To the left of the window a small curved wash basin with a waste paper basket underneath it. The skirting board was white. The high walls were painted pale mauve up to seven feet then white to the roof which was made of diagonal wooden strips about four inches wide. To the right, beside the window, an old oak wardrobe with a mirror. I inspected my reflection: it might have been that of my friend Trevor, perhaps because my hair was wet and so closer to my head than usual.
I walked across the faded floral carpet square and put the umbrella on the chest of drawers near the door. I leaned close to the mirror above it and inspected my face and I saw a depressed face. I smiled to wipe the whimpering weakness from my eyes but could not erase the torment in my eyes.
The strange room impeded the automatic ritual of getting ready for bed: I found a towel on the rail behind the door but could find no soap and no hot water. I dabbed my face and the cold water on my very small beard stubble set my nerves on edge. I found a glass on the blue linen cover of the chest of drawers and filled it with water, to take a sleeping tablet- but I had none. I recaptured a fugitive laugh; I needed not one but fifty tablets; well, thirty at least, because twenty had not done the trick last time. A story to be told to a doctor in the morning would not compose itself. Acting by reflex, I reached above the wash basin in the position where a plastic mug contained my tooth-brush at home and became agitated: I'd forgotten to buy a toothbrush and paste and the furry discomfort of mouth assumed incongrous importance. I finger-tipped the centre of the blue bedspread. The bed sagged. Fear that I would not be able to sleep without a tablet on a tired wire mattress joined absurdly with the bad taste in my mouth to make me anxious until the tension surged to my legs as if poison had been injected into my veins. The tension was psychosomatic, I knew that: anxious or depressed thoughts inflamed the nerves of the blood vessels. It could be controlled by modifying the state of mind so I shook my head to clear the anxiety away, took the newspaper from the brief-case and put it on the glass-topped table beside the bed. At least there was a bed lamp, so a man could read himself to sleep with an ounce of luck. I switched it on.
After taking off my shoes and socks and sliding my coat over a hanger behind the door, I unfolded the floral eiderdown, drew back the sheets and got into bed. The sheets were cold and the legs of my trousers were still damp enough to be uncomfortable. I got up, took off the offending trousers and climbed between the sheets again. The bed sloped under my rump so my legs were tilted upwards and the tension in them seemed to increase. I lay on my back looking at the strip of flourescent light and the wooden slats on the roof, concious of the cold sheets, the hard pillow, the tingling pain in my legs and the rhytmic rattle of the window. My mind could not disengage itself from my body, so I could neither think nor sleep.
And I'd forgotten to take a leak! I'll wake up in the middle of the night to go to the toilet and never get back to sleep again. I picked up the newspaper and read an article about a woman who committed suicide over the death of her cat. I had never even considered any other method than tablets during my planning of the two earlier attempts. But they were merely cries for help and not fully-fledged suicide determination. This time it was to be genuinely suicidal: a man beyond help except in death. Why should I consider only pills this time? Why not a gas oven!? Just walk into the hotel kitchen in the morning, excuse myself to the cook and stick my head in the oven. Or a razor blade? Buy some in the morning and slash my wrists or my throat; for liberty lies in every vein of the body. And hangs from every tree- and every stable beam. Or a bullet? Or a leap from a great height? I remembered my fear of pain, and heights- and laughed distraughtly. Or poison? Many were the ways given to man to shuffle off this mortal coil but, for the time being, I had to face a decision of greater pith and moment: I'd have to get up and find a toilet; either that or do it in the wash basin. I got up and groped around but there was no toilet adjoining the room. 'God, this place was fuckin old!'
Next to eating pies and drinking beer, the great Australian habit is pissing in wash basins (or I hear them say). My memory conjured up one of Trevor's bawdy stories. The origin of this exotic national custom is the traditinal lack of toilets in hotel bedrooms. When daylight begins to filter through the curtains, male guests arise, turn on the tap of their hand basins and indulge in one of the few remaining pleasures in life: a good long morning piss. A habit rendered the more pleasurable by its illegality and the indelicacy of depositing it in a receptacle set aside for another purpose. The Australian takes a secret delight in adopting anti-social habits because he is usually descended from convict forebars...
I went to the basin and took my cock out. The lip of the basin was too high so I had to stand on my toes. Like a patient trying to urinate in a bottle for a doctor, the impulse from my brain would not activate my bladder and I was prey to a vague feeling of guilt and embarassment. But hey, after all I'm not Australian.
At last, deciding to try to find the Gents toilet, I put on my trousers, shoes and coat and let myself out. The hotel was as black as a priest's coat except for a distant glow at the end of the corridor to my right. I edged cautiously towards the light like a child afraid of the night. The strip of light came from under a door labelled Gents' Toilet and Bathroom. I opened the door cautiously. I started back and the hairs of my head froze like dry ice: a hunchback stood in the doorway of one of the toilet cubicles. He turned towards me bent forward from the waist. He had two large yellow teeth. He held a mop in claw-like hands.
"Did I give you a fright?" he asked. "No need to be frightened of Old Sam. Just cleaning the toilets to save time in the morning." "Didn't expect to find anyone up." I managed to say, looking at my watch. "It's after one o'clock." "Oh, sleep doesn't worry Old Sam." I locked myself in the next cubicle and listened tensely while he went on with his work, but could not relieve myself until he had departed. Returning along the corridor, my heart pounded and I expected the hunchback to leap upon me from a doorway. One of my childhood fears had been of a hunchback who used to push a hand-cart around the town. My kid neighbour had called him bottle arse and laughed at him but I was afraid and sometimes imagined him breathing deeply outside my window at night (when I was a kid). My nightmares had sometimes featured him- until a sealed door replaced him as a symbol of fear and anxiety.
I locked the door of room eight behind me, undressed down to my shirt and underpants and returned back to the cold bed. I lay awake listening for the hunchback to creep to my door. I acted out the fantasy of hearing his breathing, then all I could hear was the beating of my own heart- and finally only the rattling of the window, which dragged me again from bed. I folded a page of the newspaper and jammed it into the sash then lay daring the window to rattle again. Warmth slowly seeped into me, driving before it like flocks of sheep the tension from my legs and the anxiety from my mind, until my thoughts floated pleasantly in widening circles.
Yet, deep in my subconcious a question mark: something I still had to remember? 'Man found in hotel room; no foul play suspected. The unidentified body... natural causes'. But it must be suicide and be seen to be suicide. And my thoughts raced further and thought about my lover which I would like to have. But that is only part of my Utopian dream. In politics, I had dreamed of the just city where men could live as brothers- and the reality was George Bush, Tony Blair, Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein; in love I dreamed of the ideal, loving tender woman, and the reality was my girlfriend and she had been ideal, loving and tender, to give her her due (but that was for not more than 2 weeks), until the long winter of disenchantment set in. (Actually I should never call her a girlfriend, she was never really and that means that I was always single). The Utopian city was only a phantom to which I had aspired in my dream and I would dream that dream again, given my time over. Given my time over I would do many things: say to mother, 'you must not dominate me and smother me in your breasted love'; say to my 'girlfriend' 'do not castrate me (not that I am castrated, I can assure you!) and do not permit me to manipulate you'; say to the world 'I have joined a free association of like minded-people (called mouchette.org) we began with depression and suicide but we have some faith, hope and charity and we are convinced that one day we will win'; say to my friend Trevor, 'we are friends, comrades, mates, let us then speak of our innermost anxieties and depressions, reserving nothing that might transcend ourselves by each helping erase the other's blemishes'; to my brothers, 'please do not over-love me as a symptom of your unconscious rejection of your half-sibling and leave me prey to anxiety reacting to threat'; and to my father, 'let us be humane to each other and talk like father and son could'. But in reality this is all shit as I hate them all!
I had floated into the half world between sleep and awake where dreams are as real as reality itself (or where nothing conscious is real and nothing real is concious) and I could see a little boy running, prancing down a path between strawberries and flowers to meet his best friend in the stables to go for a ride on their horse. And the boy coming to the open door of the stables, oh, no wish-fulfilment, friend, in the second attempt and no one handy to save you but your only friend petrified with fear at the sight of the body writhing and spinning, the knees bending up and down then falling still so the toes dangled, the eyes (once serene with kindness) staring with a threat to leap from their sockets and blood pouring from the ears and nose turning the shirt-front the colour of crushed raspberries. Screaming and running back to the house, "mother, come here quick, my friend has been murdered!"
Suddenly awake, I found myself crying out, not wishfulfilment! And sweating profusely. And then calm like a bereaved person suffering delayed shock. And I thought, well, it is out now, remembered in all its horror: my friend had killed himself and left me a victim of depression reacting to the loss of his love, with the hallmarks of the neurotic personality: repressed childhood memories and a lifelong fixation on an infantile pattern of relationships, doomed to translate everything from the real world into the language of childhood, doomed to act out fantasies, redeemable only in death.
The unveiling of my last headstone to a dead repression brought a relaxation of body and serenity of mind, the like of which had never before blessed me. A fleeting fear that the metabolism would change the purpose of my tomorrow tried to resist the sleep which was creeping over the bed, softly like a mother's bosom over a baby's face. And I slept and woke again in the morning, pissed in the washbasin, didn't give a fuck, shouted out "Fuck you all!", invented a story to tell mother for spending the night out, thought about home and mouchette and decided to live another day...
P.S. Leanne, were those things that I saw at the end of your note to me real kisses?! (or maybe you didn't want to write Leanne2Chris after all but some other name...) All the same, it was nice, thank you. I cannot remember when I was last kissed and hugged lovingly by a girl. It's just my mother and father pecking a kiss when they are like 'hi darling', 'bye darling' and I'm like 'fuck you parents, I don't need your fucking, bloody stinking kisses.' And all the time 'friends' who are uglier and more stupid than me seem to be getting kisses for no apparent reason. But then, the world is unjust, isn't it!? Hope I will make it to the paradise island to put 'a name to a face and a face to a name'. And these are for you: xxxxx If I don't make it...
See ya all in hell!
|30 Sep 2003||Helen||Stop eating
Stabb yourself with a kitchen-knife
Run under a car
Blow up your school (if your father is a terrorist that should be no problem)
Take daddys gun, kill your family, then kill yourself, now no one will miss you
Eat your teddy and choke to death
Make your toast in the shower
Burn up a house with you in it
There's so many ways!
|30 Sep 2003||RedAlice|| Some days Michael would wake up crying. His first thoughts would be of God and the emptiness he felt without Her. Those were the darkest days. The days when the pain of Her rejection reached back and formed an alliance with his earliest childhood memories. The God who couldn't love him now and the God who couldn't love him then, working together like a Sino-Soviet monolith lumbering toward total Michael domination. So, bright boy that he was, he worked hard, drank hard, and chased soft women. Anything to forget. Anything to kill the pain. Until his dream came true. Until that amazing day when God came to him and said She had been wrong, that Michael was indeed the man for Her and She wanted them to be together always. Which is when Michael suddenly realized that God was nuttier than rat crap in a pistachio warehouse.
...Michael still wakes up crying.
|30 Sep 2003||Felicia in Paradox||Theres writers popping out everywhere. It's all beginning to make sense to me now. They (the people of this website mind you) should name Mouchette.org a different name. Apparently, this site kind of reminds me of high school "Shakespearean" times, when minds were fresh, the young were experimental, and contemplating suicide was only a recreational hobby.|
|30 Sep 2003||Will2Leanne||Thanks. sorry, I cant get here often now, cos someone kindly disconnected my internet. they dont like me talking to any one :( Thanks for your message. Im at a library. Well, I gotta go. Take care folks :)|
|30 Sep 2003||joe blow||i dont know . but i do know that my time has come. i have no choice now but to end it all.. i have nothing left in this world.. i have made my mind up it was a hard choice but now it is made.. goodbye world ..ill never see my mother again or all the things in this world.. the navy hates me and wants me dead too ..so.. be it..|
|29 Sep 2003||We recently remembered the tragedy of the twin towers. On such occasions the world stands still.
This is what worries me- when a few thousand rich westerners die, the world stands still.
In Africa, Asia and Latin America just as many children die for want of a few dollars, food and health-care and the world does not stand still. It is business as usual. We are not talking of thousands every year, we are talking of thousands every hour. So as I have said so before fuck you Bush, Blair and all the governments for not doing anything.
We may come to a conclusion that the terrorists did something wrong (I doubt it with us Mouchette people) but everyone can surely understand what drove the terrorists to do it. Maybe the towers would have favoured their cause more had they painted them red rather than destroying them. (I like this idea. Imagine America waking up to red twin towers...).
Unfortunately, if the children are to be saved, they need the help of rich people. And, as the old saying goes, you do not bite the hand that feed you...
|29 Sep 2003||Steve||You're right, Chris. I received a letter from my former high school that I graduated from last year asking me to stop by and pick up my year book in a couple of weeks because they're having a sort of brief get-together for all of last year's students while we pick up our yearbooks. I was pretty much set on not going, and after reading your message, I know that I definitely won't go, because nothing good can come of it. I figure the last thing I need is additional emotional trauma when I'm already suicidal.|
|28 Sep 2003||Kutzow|| When Krisha figured out that the universe truly was an illusion, she was quite dumbfounded at the simplicity of the insight. Unless some sort of awareness exists to perceive the whole shabang, the whole shabang effectively does not exist. It could be an infinite space filled with stars and planets, or a plaid snot rag wrapped around a bottle of pseudoephedrine hydrochloride. Or, to put it another way, when a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, there is no sound. For a sound to be a sound, there must be some sort of ear hooked to some sort of intelligence that says something like, "What was that?" Otherwise the sound might as well be a plaid snot rag wrapped around a bottle of pseudoephedrine hydrochloride. So now Krisha understood that energy and mass only exist because of awareness, which means they have no inherent existence.
Of course she had this insight while fighting a bad head cold, so that might have had something to do with it.
|28 Sep 2003||Leanne2Chris||"See you 'disturbingly'..." Oh no Chris, it'd be an honour to come across you and all you other suicidal arses. Let us retreat on a deserted island, get to know each other, put a face to a name and a name to a face. Hear those voices you speak silently with here, see and feel your tired hands of endless typing from a time of dispair and longing. Let us finally breathe non-suicidal&toxic air, take a break&have a Kit-Kat. that is of course, after the Primary/Highschool Hell-on-Earth experience. After the routine stock up on stationary (which in 2 weeks will only get nicked anyway, when your asshole 'friend' needs to borrow a pen). After you've purchased file paper which will only be doodled on, after the uniform the Mother buys which is twice your size 'to grow into' she says, whilst you're getting lost in it. And after you throw away the sandwiches Mother prepared. Most importantly after.. we all get ditched for the more popular and genuinely fab kind, as peoples' dark side finally surfaces when adolesence strikes. Girls hips get bigger as their appetites conveniently get smaller. The boys unbutton their shirts in the summer in an attempt to show off their non-existent masculinity. And yes, Chris... after the dreaded reunion, where old 'friends' make you feel important, welcoming you with open arms.. (that is, after they apologise, after mistaking you for someone else). Where you grab the nearest alcoholic beverage to ease the pain of the upcoming events later on. Gulp,gulp gulp.. (Aarrrgggghhh-too much blood in my alcohol stream!!!!!!!) Hours of standing in the corner, ignored by the crowds........ hhmmmm... we've been here before, nice to see things don't change. Standing awkwardly in that dark abandoned corner, looking down at the floor, conforming to your role as 'the kid nobody wants to play with'. You remind yourself one more time of your own pathetic existence.. feeling yourself being torn to shreads by some invisible force. You hit rock bottom inside coming to the realisation ''yes, they did approach me only for my lunch money, yes, that was me that paper ball was aimed at every morning, no, nobody did notice I hadn't attended the Highschool prom, no my face did not appear in the year book. '' Well there's only one thing left to do... leave this place over-loaded with bad memories. Go home, pack my bags, call you all up, get on that plane and retreat to this paradise... If you can make it, I'll see you all there. xxx
|28 Sep 2003||Mouchette||I am pleased and moved to hear that it was so meaningful to some of you to enter my "favourites". I wanted to point out a new feature I made on the index page: try to roll over with your mouse on my little photo or just wait 2 minutes and you will see one of your texts appear in a sort a transparent "think bubble". This text is chosen among my favourites of the moment. I wonder if anybody has noticed it, it's there since a couple of months already. I might have made the feature too discreet....|
|28 Sep 2003||D. Ben Noble||Something, a trap - perhaps - which occupies me whilst drunk.|
|28 Sep 2003||Jody||taking pills|
|28 Sep 2003||Sara M. C.||Go to the homecoming football game, stand on the lights and in front of every one take two whole bottles of pain pills, wash them down with vodka, slit your wrists and after you have bled for a while, say peace, love and empathy, Kurt Cobain forever, then jump to you death while shouting damn you all.(this is how I would do it, I'm 14)|
|27 Sep 2003||Chris||Where does a 13 year old spend most of his/her time? Basically it's either at school or at home. So we ask can a child be suicidal about school? Of course he can! It's just that the 'child' only realises years and years later that his school days were not the best days of his life as we are incorrectly normally led to believe!
It all begins when you start assuming that your old school mates want to see you again. The fact that at school you were irrelevant and might have been forgotten doesn't enter your head. Meanwhile, you start lingering over the stationery and pleated trousers, take out your primary school excercise books and the old tie signed by all your back bench companions and scribbled with old cliches like "Keep in touch" and "We'll never forget you."
Two days later the nostalgia gets worse, so you send a tentative e-mail to a 'girl' you went to school with, wondering whatever happened to her and all those school friends you lost touch with. You immediately demand all the contact details of everyone and start firing 1,000-word epics across the country. "How about having a school reunion", you say. "Come on, it'll be fun". Of course, you're wagging your tail all over this school reunion business. After all, weren't you drop-dead popular at school, carried upon the shoulders of young lads with shining eyes and flushed cheeks? Didn't girls queue up after school skipping on their toes for just one glimpse of tousled hair hero you? Weren't you the up and always coming star of the football team?
Oh no, that was your friends. Suddenly like a rush of bad breath it all comes back to you. You were only there when it happened to them. And after all the inspired brain storming involved in the choosing of the bar and restaurant, after you send the last e-mail and hang up the last caller, realisation comes upon you that planning the school reunion was a very big, big mistake.
At school-leaving, you set controls for the heart of the sun. Years later, you have either taken the whole solar system with you or been frazzled to a crisp by the sun. And you find yourself at your school reunion, the one you planned, looking more like facing a job interview than someone on a fun night out, nervously chatting over your drinks (yes, you need a lot), balding heads and wrinkling faces. This wasn't what you had in mind when you started plotting on a Shakespearean scale. You hardly envisaged that you need strength for school reunions, because you need to be fairly secure to lay your life open to the scrutiny of your earliest critics. After all no one likes to admit to failing to become an astronaut or a rock star. And what if you turn up and everyone is richer, thinner, 'better' somehow than you?
School reunions are false hope. School reunions are unkind, all the more so since certain people may have stumbled on hard times, lost their jobs, looks, marriage or hair. School reunions are cruel reminders that you have been forgotten by all your companions, and when you return home, generally sad and with all dignity lost, you question not only the night out but the whole first part of your education and ponder- Are primary and secondary school days really the best days of our lives that our faith in history leads us to believe?
We start off with kindergarten and primary school, those seasons of cartoon character satchels and new pencil cases. For mothers, there's a clucking flurry of last-minute shopping for school clothes, sport shoes, colour coded plastic covers and stationery. For fathers, it's filling up the petrol tank for taxing children to school prior to a day at the office (but they are glad that they are going to get rid of you and your whaling, "at least for school time"). Children are excited, anxious, even terrified at the prospect of a whole new year- new teachers to know, new subjects and new expectations to wrestle with (yes, you're so stupid that you like the idea of work and challenges!). Some will be indifferent and envisage endless SMS tournaments on their mobile phones. Most of them are mourning the end of summer holidays, when there was more time for eating and playing, for laughter and silliness and sleeping to the max.
For thousands of children, school marks the start of that endless, boring to hell routine- up at seven, off to school 45 minutes later, home at two with homework, television, piano practice, television, some kind of evening class (religious, ballet or something), football training, television, supper, and another hour of blurred television screen before mum gets up and heaves them to bed at a reasonable hour. Next morning it's same thing, day in, day out until summer dawns again and thankfully it's the time when nothing much happens. Compared to summer holidays the other breaks are insignificant. The Christmas break is full of anxiety: too much money spent and family tensions rise to boiling temperatures. Easter may be a celebration of spring, but it's usually spent in swotting for the upcoming exams and too much chocolate eating. Summer, though is the season of sun, sea and sleeping to the max. It's blue sky, ice-creams, yellow sand and suntanned faces for three whole months.
But as all good things go, summer holidays get shorter. Year after year, parents start becoming pushy bores, and children find themselves in that awkward age marked by a new deep voice, hairy hands and limbs (not to mention the pubic area) and voila, they are suddenly ready to go to secondary school, going on 13 and already bored with life. One minute they are children, the next they are considering the mysteries of shaving and opposite sex and thinking that maybe they should have enjoyed their childhood more and not have started school at three and took the risk of being sucked into schooling too early. Maybe they shouldn't have taken a million ballet, piano, football and private lessons. Another bicycle ride would have been nice, while that first kiss should have been followed by a second and a third. And young Lucy would have made a nice girlfriend and Lara's special Sunday leftover shouldn't have gone unstolen. But then, it's not the children who decide what is best for them.
So off to secondary school the children go with a daily grunt. They wallow like treacle in bus stages, easily distinguishable in their colour-coded uniforms. The private school children speak poshly, and have neat hair matching expensive sports gear. They cringe and pucker up their faces at everyone including state secondary school students staring at them. They are all navigators of uncharted territory.
On leaving primary school, children are not just one year older, but embarking on a whole phase of life, which least to say is more depressing. Starting secondary school feels like the official opening to the small adolescent's games (knowing in your heart that you were never a good athlete).
Fascinating phenomena appear, like pimples and the discovery, in single sex groups and far from the madding teachers, of the mythical other sex. New friends (which years later you realise were no friends at all) are made and innovative disciplinary methods like after school hours tried and frequently tested. There are new subjects like history and languages. Boring ones like sports, for those like me who never saw the point of running unless you're being chased. Mysterious ones like geography, that ability to trace maps and a capacity to rote learn the names of such fixed and ambigous places as rivers, cities, deserts and oceans. Yes you might find it amazing as you are still too stupid to realise how worthless it is.
Secondary school years are for children like the seven years of worry (they do sometimes repeat). Some fret about whether they'll make the basketball team. Others feel the heavy breath of the nearing O level exams down their neck. "Homework", screams the teacher. "Home", orders mum, "straight after school and no lingering with your friends". "Work", disciplines dad, witholding promises of a new computer, which is only supposed to be used to help with the homework (the naughty boys and girls end up searching suicide websites...). "Help", children shout in the direction of guidance teachers and counsellors (this is done only to distract the teachers and parents and manage to get away with not doing the work, after all, real help is only found on good suicide websites). Secondary school is a time where bullies appear on the school yard horizon, like the Beano Bash Street Kids, promising violent fights and riots, dark revenge in obscure corners of the school ground, cruel and puerile, but let's face it, these are the only real exciting things about school. And while all this is taking place, 'friends' always seem to be running outside having a good time.
So you think that your schooldays are the best days of your life? Think again and you realise how depressing and suicidal they are. But come the end of summer and me and all the other students have to go back unfortunately, though I've passed my primary and secondary years thankfully.
Moral: If you survive and you're still alive years after school is finished don't ever organise or attend a school reunion! It'll completely break you down.
P.S. I have to say something on everyone's comments about this site changing. Yeah, this site has changed but it just has got better. My story of this site reflects the story of the site itself. First time I came in I just had a sight, put in a cruel, stupid joke and left, second time I did the same. Third time I realised that this site wasn't so stupid so I decided to write something a little more tasteful and I started messing around with poetry. I ended up in Mouchie's favourites and kept doing poetry for some time. Then I wrote some stupid shit, tried to forget about the site but came back fairly recently and anyone who reads my stuff knows what I write today. I have come to realise the potential of this site and today it means much more to me. This site helps you unlike the all the other sites that tell you that you should contact their counselors for help. That's all shit. Sometimes this site may look as some 'blind leading the blind', or rather 'suicidal leading suicidal' idea but you know? It works. The reflection in the site's story is here. In the beginning people used to come in, write stupid jokes and probably never come back, then things got better and people used to log on more than once and they were writing more serious stuff. Today anyone who logs in for the first time is hooked because the site is much more mature and entertaining. Occasionally you still find some bullshit. Even Mouchie's tastes have also changed. Leaf through the 'favourite' pages and you'll notice the difference between blasted suicide ideas (which I admit still make me laugh), and better, more mature stories and ideas building gradually through the years. Not that I will ever complain of Lucy's stories. And for all those crying their hearts out on Lucy, now that I know that she's not real I can do without any more Lucy stories because now they will sound stale. I am gonna get criticised for what I said but I suggest another thing, maybe Lucy or Phil or who the fuck it is may log on with a new name and give us other delightful stories. And for those crying on Felicia and Billy, they are with us and they have written only recently. So shut the fuck up (no offence to anyone! That's just my aggressive manner of speaking) and be proud that you make part of this excellent, or should we say classic site, as it is supposed to go down in history, which just gets better every day.
And Leanne if you are not fed up of my speech by now and still reading, thanks for naming me. At least I know that I'm not talking alone. I'm saying this as in my history here (which is getting quite long now) I remember only three times were there was a reference to me or my writing! Thank you, maybe somebody does care after all!
See you disgustingly at school, college, university or where the fuck you're going! Unfortunately I'm gonna be there...
|27 Sep 2003||Felicia||I did see Lucy Cortina on the Tranny website. My GAWD! The boobs look so real. And they are bigger than mine.
Shall I trade for some new ones?
|27 Sep 2003||Obscene||put on your favorite swimsuit fill up the bathtub and play who can hold hold there breath the longest with your pet fishy YOU HAVE TO WIN!!!!|