|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?
|04 Nov 2003||Chris||Shit just piles up, it's stinking and I'm deep in it. I just did another major fuck up. I promised Mauvais that we would talk and that I would e-mail and I never fucking did it. It was hard to find what to say to this girl. I really loved her and I really cared and I assumed (wrongly) that she wouldn't go before we would have talked. After all she came here fairly recently and most of us who have been talking about suicide for much longer have still not done it. But, alas, what can I do now except wish her luck? Like a priest who prays on someone who's dead or dying I'm going to try and make our last (exclusively mouchette.org, suicidal) 'prayer', 'words', call them what you like...
'Suicide is a person's attempt to give final human meaning to a life which has become humanly meaningless... Love does not cling to the I in such a way as to have the You only for its 'content', its object; but love is between I and You. The person who does not know this, with his very being know this, does not know love; even though he ascribes to it the feelings he lives through, experiences, enjoys and expresses. Love ranges in its effect through the whole world. In the eyes of him who takes his stand in love, and gazes out of it, men are cut free from their entangelment in bustling activity. Good people and evil, wise and foolish, beautiful and ugly, become successively real to him; that is, set free they step forth in their singleness and confront him as You.
Suicide is an act of communication from the dead to the living. It is man's only means, at this early stage of his development, to establish the telepathic communion which will eventually end his loneliness and crash through the barriers of pain he has created between the living and the dying. Only those who have chosen to die can unite the living and those living must try to achieve what others achieved in death. (That is why a hunger strike or threatining to kill yourself in some other way is the most powerful weapon of a persecuted minority). Confrontation with the dreadful truth that a person might wisely choose death is (or I hope will be in your case) an experience more productive of pity and terror and more purifying than the cathartic experience in tragedy.'
Well, where did that put me? Back to square one, I'm still standing in deep shit and I will have to carry this burden (piled up on all the others) through the rest of my life. And despite of all this shit I don't seem to have the balls to commit suicide. I know that there are some (and I mean very few) people who will be hurt and I just keep hoping (wrongly) that I would manage to get a new life. I feel I'm really stuck in a rut but suicide will hurt myself too. How can I do it? Will Mauvais ever forgive me? I think she shouldn't! Well, I wish her best luck, wherever she is and whatever she's doing, and I believe (and hope) that she would be wishing us best luck too.
B.I.H Chris (I think that's more appropriate than R.I.P) For those who haven't got it it's Burn In Hell!
P.S. I wish Mauvais was still around just to read this at least! Bye luv xxxxxxxxx
See ya all in hell!
|02 Nov 2003||Felicia was framed||To Just A Girl, The Folks, Lucy
My Personal Vendetta
Today I made my involuntary resignation at a cow ranch, totally against my will. Next week, this coming Friday, will be my last day.
Yes. From the sting of it, I had run into a dead end unfortunate situation. I was indeed the target of four toxic villains, so I thought. Okay, make it three, counting off Cowboy Bob, who I thought was a culprit at first. The rest of the three varmints, Stud Boy, Silent Bubba, and that fat bitch Prima Donna, made sure to it that they kept track of every single mistake I supposedly made.
And Stud Boy lied.
I kept account of all my task quotas, and they said I didnt brand enough cows. For the effort of saying that I was trying despite the brutal hoof kicks and burning cow hair, they wanted me out. It was obvious that they didnt want me. First tears came in my eyes, then resentment. Well? Wouldnt you feel the same if you had two mouths to feed, and a Ma who is about to fall off her rocker?
Afterwards at the end of the day I was plotting a form of revenge. To go postal by ordering a sawed off shot gun at the convenience store would be illegal. But to take revenge indirectly by advertising their competition would be the sweetest revenge. Word of mouth by rumor will kill the business. They happened to do it to me by dirtying my name for future employment, so its back to them publicly?
Yes, like a tabloid? Yes (Brief moment of silence.) Well? Shouldnt I?
Sigh . Only in a perfect world.
- Yes, this is based on a true story.
|01 Nov 2003||just a girl||mmmm
i do wonder why i still visit this site.. although most of you would think i either died or just vanished.. i am still here.. (getting on with my life as a matter of fact) yet i do come by from time to time, just to check up on everyone..
this used to be my home.. this used to be my escape from reality.. this used to be all i had.. but things have changed.. although i can still read and understand just about every entry that comes before my eyes, they are no longer my thoughts..
but i know, one day again, they will be. for as i quote Felicia, or rather, blondey from The Long Kiss Goodnight.. "life is pain..." but i guess i got used to it...
i hope when i do find myself thinking of jumpin off the pretty steel bridge near my skool one day (i hope i never do again tho), i can come here again.. and be welcome again.. to be me, just a girl.....
life does go on guys...
|29 Oct 2003||Chris||Unfortunately I didn't go on a permanent vacation Leanne. Well, at least there's someone who to live for (you). As I am still here I am going to relate this strange dream of mine. I let all the dream interpreters make what they want out of it...
I finally had gone on that permanent vacation. A body and it is my own body, arms folded across the chest in a coffin coming through a trap door into the dark boiler room of a crematorium where two fires glow behind grated doors. A man is taking the lid off the coffin and slinging the body across his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Then laying it on a moving platform like a baggage rack in an airport. The man is a hunch-back. As the body moves he picks up a heavy mallet. My body disappears into a huge tubular tunnel with lobster-backed rubber walls, and becomes jammed in the head of the tube. The hunch-back is crawling along the tube and bashing the body with the mallet to force it through the fire beyond. I seem to be standing in the boiler room yelling into the tube opening and the words echo back at me like a voice in a canyon: 'Don't burn me, bury me alive!'
And the hunch-back swinging the mallet trying to force my poor body and turning towards me, eyes wide and frothing mouth full of yellow teeth, and running headlong towards me brandishing the mallet but stumbling because he is running against the pull of the conveyor belt. And I must flee him. Running through the large boiler room past shovels and ashes to ashes, dust to dust and lime and coffins and flowers, orange flowers, ineffectual flowers, red flowers, cheap flowers, drooping flowers, black flowers, guilty flowers, ritual flowers strewn everywhere so that the dead may be forgotten and their bodies burned. The door is sealed but this is not the sealed door dream, no seal, only a handle and pulling it down desperately and the door opening.
Slamming the door and running but with graceful steps like a ballet dancer miming flight, leaping and pirouetting, gesturing to the fates across the paths and lawns 'I never promised you a rose garden as obscene as poppies in a war field fertilized by the brass plaques and the ashes of the dead and smoke rising from the windowed tower deceiving the victims like an Auschwitz bath-house.' And running through the roses, legs crashing painfully against the stakes towards the wall of memories, green and brown, Panel 69- Chris- In Loving Memory, and beyond the headstones and crosses and angels and the hunch-back is stumbling behind and falling into an open grave. In loving memory to the sweetest thoughts and treasured remembrance of my dear friend, Leanne and she is ahead of me now and I am pleading I want to make love to you, don't reject me but she is running away shouting 'mother-fucker you don't want me, you want your mother' and I am shouting 'goddamn my mother'.
Running across the unkempt graves and crashing into angels and a voice singing and I am dead as dead I may well be, come and find the place where I am lying and kneel and say an Ave there for me. In fond memory of mother sitting beside the headstone and it is mother sitting there crooning to a little boy whose head is buried in her warm bosom. Oh, Chris, I love you so but you don't love me. Please go away, you don't love me.
Running through the city in grief and despair to where there is a bronze statue of a horseman and the statue seems to move and I am fleeing with the shadow of the horseman behind and the rain pelts the window panes and the wind howls and the trees sway ominously and storm clouds sweep across the skyline and blacknight falls. The pounding hooves are behind me still and I am running up the street now past a man with the snow draping his shoulders. And the horse thunders closer but it is not a bronze horse. It is a grey horse and father is driving the horse standing up whip in one hand flaying the flanks of the foaming horse and a tomahawk raised in the other hand: 'Your mother is a bubble and you would never be sorry if I die.'
Rushing into the faded archway into a courtyard as dark as a prison cellar the horse thunders on the cobblestones. Fumbling with frantic fingers to show a policeman my passport or some other type of identifiction and asking him to help me I was ignored and the police kept escorting a man with covered eyes and gagged mouth. I arrived at a stairs. Bounding up the stairs shouting Mauvais Souhait's name to a flat on the right and it has twin holes (like it has been shot at) drilled in the door and a door jamb through which a thick wire is threaded and clamped with red seal and I am clawing at the seal and calling 'Mauvais, Mauvais'.
The door seems to loosen and rattle when I drag on the seal and suddenly it opens and a young woman with a bloodless face in black and white gown and slipppers saying that she's got work to do. From the doorway I can see a child maybe three years old (maybe Mauvais' sister) and the woman running to and fro like a magpie trying to keep up with all life and kids bring, throwing objects into the cot: butter, buscuits, a fountain pen, bread, socks, a doll which lies on its back and cries and a real live baby in another cot cries with it and the world is a baby's cry that has no end and nothing exists outside it. The woman comes to the door again and says: 'you must go now for we are enemies of all the people in the world now and if they find us they will kill us both!'. She slams the door and it reseals itself and I claw at the seal until my fingers bleed. The door rattles but the seal will not come off...
It was only a dream and I woke up in bed my fingers bleeding around dirty nails, scratching at the framework of the bed and the sheets and pillow were soaked in blood, sweat and tears and all of sudden it was just a normal, dull night which I was living, or rather existing, pitifully through and I knew that next day was going to be a normal boring love-less routine day, fucked up as usual...
P.S I hope that neither Mouvais Souhait and neither Leanne were offended. It's just a crazy dream to read and I still love you both more than ever. Very big thanks Leanne for the shoulder to cry on, for loving to sit near me on the bus, etc. xxxxxxx
VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: THE MAN WHO WROTE USING MY NAME AND TOLD YOU SOME SHIT TO JUMP OUT OF THE WINDOW IS NOT ME. I DON'T WRITE THAT SORT OF CRAP! AND SENDING E-MAILS TO THAT GUY WILL NOT ARRIVE TO THE ORIGINAL CHRIS! PROBABLY YOU GUESSED BUT I JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE! SHOULD I TELL THIS GUY AND HIS CRAP IDEAS TO FUCK OFF? I WILL NOT AS I TRY TO RESPECT EVERYONE AND EVRYONE'S IDEAS BUT I DO KINDLY ASK HIM TO USE A DIFFERENT NAME IN THE FUTURE AND I THANK HIM FOR HIS COOPERATION! I GUESS CHRIS IS JUST SO MUCH A COMMON NAME (ALL THE BETTER FOR ME TO BE LOST AND FORGOTTEN FOREVER, NOT THAT A STRANGE NAME WOULD HAVE ME REMEMBERED BY ANYONE) Sigh!
See ya all in Hell!
|27 Oct 2003||lee||this past may, my best friend in the whole world killed himself. he took an overdose of prescribed morphine (he was hording pills for this occassion). he had recently talked about suicide, but this was his first attempt (wildly successful, i might add).
i often wonder what he would think if he could see his boxed body in the cold ground. i wonder if he was really dead when they buried him, or was he just so unconscious that they thought he was dead - i wonder if he awoke a week later to find himself in a dark coffin, knowing that his only escape was a slow claustrophobic hell. i wonder if he had second thoughts about it all as he was so doped up he couldn't raise an eyebrow, and panicked for his life but was unable to rouse anyone else in the house to save him. i wonder if he could forsee the darkness and pain he left behind to all who loved him - i doubt it, because i could never have forseen how broken-hearted i'd be without him. i wonder if there was anything i could have done or said to save him, and i'll take that torment with me to my own grave. i wonder if i killed myslef, could i catch up with him and spend forever with him? i wonder where he is now, does he maintain any cosmic consciousness, or is it all a big black nothing, or has he been reborn as a puppy, or broken out of his egg as a baby wolf spider.
all i am left with are memories. little about suicide makes sense to me, except that people who kill themselves generally do NOT want to die, but accept death reluctantly as the only way out of - what they perceive to be - a hopeless situation. whatever. i miss him. i wish he knew that while his misery is gone, the people who loved him and cared about him are just beginning their misery - the guilt, the heartache, missing him terribly.
if he could see his broken-hearted mother as i have, bent over in sorrow, would he put his arm around her and try to take away her pain?
|26 Oct 2003||Felicia||I am still alive. Unfortunately the spiders under my mattress don't think so. Been reading into Chris's posts which are quite interesting. He outbeats my sense of humor, and overthrows me with his genius. I have been reading into the Witchcraft stuff and casting spells on ex-boyfriend's by turning them into toads. There's one at my window sill right now.
Be right back....
(Smash!!! Accompanied by rabbit screaming!!)
Okay the bad spell is gone now.
Carry on my wayward wailing Banshee!!
Hail to the Gay Punk!
|23 Oct 2003||Leanne||Last night (or shall I say this early morning), it was one of those nights again.... and you all know what these nights consist of... where your head is buried in your tear-soaked pillow, stinging cheeks from the salted tears and you ask yourself ... "what the fuck am I doing here?" I wrapped my quilt so tight around my body, I felt I were a sandwich wrapped in cling-film... perhaps in a desperate attempt to compensate for just a single hug... my quilt was my substitute for what I longed for... just a hug. Even if I was hugged so tight it would've killed me, it would be worth dying for. It's needed everytime I walk the street on the way to a mistake called college.. the little things I spot on my journey... I take note of the cracks in the pavement decaying in bad english weather, the black polka-dot pattern on the path before me which were once fresh-spat-out-gum and I start to wonder whose mouths they'd belonged to. I look up at the sky still walking my tired little steps, sizing up the dark clouds' potential to start pissing down with rain... these stupid thoughts just get too much. A hug is needed for my best efforts to stay in the same room as my parents, following them around the house like some needy pet, doing my best not to allow myself to be in a room alone... so terrified of being left alone with just me&my insignificant thoughts ... yet seriously loathing their company hearing their converstations of bills and work... knowing one day unfortunately, I'm gonna be just like them, saying things just like that, only not to a husband but to myself. But to be in a room alone...... having the ability to think 'is this the day?' 'Has the time come?' 'Is this the absolute maximum of shittyness I'll ever be able to handle?' 'Or have I had worse?' No I've had worse days, blue-er moods, darker times. I can handle being here alone, tonight, I'll pull through, today is not the day. Resist the temptation. "Leanne, it's a doctor you need." The 'good friend' says. "No, it's not, it's a boyfriend." Says the Bro. NO! Doctors are just as fucked up as we are, only they avoid it... and boyfriends- no, I'm no good, I'll just poison them with my negativity. All I need is a darn good hug and a darn good day and I'll be ready to face the next.
Why do I obsess of death, yet strive to live? Why the effort if I loathe this place? Shouldn't I wanna be left alone in a room? But I do, but it's bad. Why do I NEED my family so much and yet not WANT them at all? Why am I staying alive for certain individuals I'll never have the honour of meeting face2face? How can a website keep me breathing? Why do I let the past hold me back? Since when did I have to force myself to write things down to distract myself from committing suicide? How does an Atheist pray for help whenever she hits rock bottom? How is it possible for an exhausted person-mind tired, muscles weak and energies low- struggle to fall asleep each night? How can the mind tolerate such bullshit? My back is stiff as a board, muscles are so tensed and that headache's back again. To make matters worse... I'm out of Vodka, looks like there won't be any sorrow-drowning tonight then... :-(
Nothing to numb this pain. No friends to call. Why-oh-why did I top up my credit yesterday? To convice myself I had friends perhaps?... Half-term has started so it's back to my bed, re-living my 3 month summer holiday and blowing my nose into heaps of tissues.
I'm off to my room now... self pitying time has just kicked off.Ta Ta Folks.
P.S-Chris, for a minute there, I had the feeling you left to go on a permanent vacation! .......Mwah. xxxXxxx
|23 Oct 2003||MauvaisSouhait||Another meaningless day has passed by and again the only feeling i have inside of me is hurt. And to what Chris was saying about how it hurts, he is perfectly right. I refused to ride the bus home because i was always mocked, not even the junior high kids wanted to sit w/ me. At school when I go into a class and we sit where we want, there's no one who wants to sit by me and that hurts. I end up alone in the corner in the back of the room and all i do is write. I try to ignore all the comments and whispers i hear behind and beside me so i put myself into my writings or my books and it hurts to just know that i have to do that. I'm not popular at all, though my cousins who go to the school are. I don't try to be everyone else, i quit basketball years ago because popularity sucked and so now i'm just myself and by being myself i've noticed that i've lost all the friends i thought i'd had... including my family. When your best friend forgets all about you for her boyfriend and then comes to you when they have a problem it hurts. And it seems like all my friends have someone and i'm the one w/out. I'm not ugly, i'm not stupid, i'm just myself and i'm guessing that no one wants that and it hurts. Maybe a slow death would be worth it, maybe i should take up smoking like so many others and become a follower in the path of death. Sometimes i'm glad for the pain and suffering and all of these problems because it gives me a story and w/ that i can write. But then again all these problems are things i can't seem to get a handle over and maybe i should just kill myself. It doesn't seem like anything is worth while. With my luck i'll end up dropping out of college and never getting married. And i ask myself why anyone would want to be w/ me. I don't even want to be w/ me. But then again in another twisted thought, i'd rather be myself than be any other. Everytime i try to OD on pills they do nothing. i took a whole bottle the other day and didn't feel a thing... why isn't this working for me? why? And Chris, thanks|
|23 Oct 2003||Chris||Visiting my local newsagent to buy a mobile-phone top-up voucher the other day, I was amazed to see a poster full of savage heavy metal lyrics pinned up behind the counter. As I handed over the money, I could distinctly detect the savage lyrics: 'Slow Death!', 'Immense Decay!'
But after adjusting my varifocal lenses to study the scene a little more closely, I realised that I was looking at racks of cigarette packets emblazoned with government health warnings.
Now, I know these cancerous cautions are nothing new, but since when did they become so predominant and explicit? Both smokers and non-smokers are probably shocked to see how the Marlboro logos and such like have been shrunk to the size of postage stamps to make room for giant messages that tell people they are going to die soon.
They say the world is turning into a nanny state- and it's absolutely true. These days, wherever you go, whatever you do, you're encouraged to be in mortal fear for your life. Why cannot people die quietly? Why should people fear death when this life is so full of hurt?
When I'm looking for someone to talk to to kill the time but find no one it hurts. When I ask for cooperation but I'm just laughed at it hurts. When I'm on a bus and the bus is full except the seat near to me but for some reason everyone prefers standing up than sitting next to me it hurts. When I pass a group of girls (or even boys) and they start laughing it hurts (What the fuck is so funny? Can anyone fucking explain?). When you see people that you know avoiding you so that they would not talk to you it hurts. When you're at a bar or party and a romantic song is played, everyone grabs his partner and dances to the the rythm. Only thing I can grab onto is my beer bottle. That hurts. When people come find you only when they need something it hurts. When everyone (even the ugliest people on the planet) seems to find a girlfriend or boyfriend except me it hurts. When people have a friend's shoulder to cry on but the only thing I can cry into is my pillow at night it hurts. When you're just bitched and mocked at by everyone for no apparent reason it hurts. When people make fun of you because of some defect you have it hurts...
Ok, I may be yelling and screaming like lots of you do. Ok, this might not be the writing that goes into the favourites. This is the broken heart of a broken man and I had to get it out and I don't give a fuck who likes it or not! I am dead but biologically alive. Might as well be dead among the biologically dead! Why don't they let us fucking die?
P.S. Mauvais Souhait, just hang in there, I will send an e-mail or write something especially for you or do something. I don't know what I'm doing or saying but believe me I will, promise! You're a writer and a poet? It's not that we are born excellent writers or something, I understand that. Happy people don't have stories to tell, We do! Some call it depression, We call it a song!
Leanne, thanks for the Good Souls bit. Love that song. I had stopped believing in love. Since I met you, I think it might really exist xxxxxxxxxx And Mauvais, just hang in there luv
See ya all in hell!
|21 Oct 2003||cute doggy||Fuck all you mother fuckin bitchss! I died twice already. I am fucking immortal as I found out though my suicide attempts. Yes, I evolved into a neo-ape like little god. I could kill simply by my infinite mental power. If you want to die, send me your picture, your name, and how you want to die. I will try to kill at least one of you a day. I just evolved, so my power is still very limited. It is an exhausting mental pocess. Money don't mean shit to me, I am a little god, I do it free of charge.|
|20 Oct 2003||MauvaisSouhait||Today is one of those days when you're not sure what's going on. One of those days when you feel like taking a walk and you get out there and you just walk and keep going, not sure where you're going and by the time you figure that out you're lost. But in the meantime before you figure it out you're in a daze, not being able to comprehend the world around you. Now you're somewhere and you have no clue how to get back to where you were. Then you think... "well being lost is better than being where i was, is it not?" But if you think about it.. you were lost where you were in the first place, only in a different way. You look around you and nothing seems sane. The sky is grey and the clouds are coming together as though there is to be a storm. A storm that's about to tear at the very seams of the earth. About to make all of your surroundings disappear like everything in your life has. You close your eyes and try to imagine your life, where you're from, where you went, and where you are but there's nothing, just an emptiness. What are you supposed to do now? You walk a little more until you stop. Something on the ground caught your eye and to your suprise it's a jagged piece of something sharp. "God thank you" you say. You sit on the cold hard ground and you put your arm straight out, you take the jagged piece and you cut from your wrist to the middle of your arm, up and down. Then you cut again, harder this time. The rain starts to pour down and you realize you are yourself and crying, your tears are rolling down your cheeks, the salty taste flowing down onto your lips. You realize that the rain has stopped, or maybe it's just your imagination because really you don't see much of anything. Your eyes are closed and you're laying on the ground with your arm outstretched. Finally peace... total relaxation. Maybe now you'll find where you were and are. Maybe now you aren't lost.|
|16 Oct 2003||Chris||Now that September and summer are over... it can only mean one thing... it's time for my uncle to start boring everyone about skiing once again.
He took up skiing only five years ago at a time when he really should have been contemplating a more sedentary type of pastime. But you know how it is with men when they reach a certain age, they begin to feel the relentless march of time and as an antedote try and find something to convince themselves that anno domini will have no power over them. Sadly, most of them follow a predictable course and go out and either a) buy a bright red sports car, b) take to wearing clothes two sizes too small and a whole generation too young, c) start chasing after impossibly young girls with equally impossible asses or d) the old favourite booze. However attractive the above options are, I know that none would get past my uncle's wife (although I suspect she thinks that he does at least three of the above and has a red BMW Z3 stashed in a garage somewhere). So, my uncle took to the slopes instead. One of the few genuine regrets he has in life is that he didn't strap on a pair of skis twenty years ago. But it does have its downside (no pun intended), he has become such a bore on the subject, I find that he steers every conversation he's in around to skiing, he spends hours daydreaming about whizzing across the snow and worst of all he has to stop himself from wishing the time away until the season begins... remember he took up skiing in the first place because he was afraid that time was passing too quickly on his way to his own personal middle life crisis. But, his wife is happy, he goes skiing at every and any opportunity and she gets to have the whole bed to herself (instead of her normal 97% of it) for days on end. She just drops him at the airport and goes home to check that the life insurance is up to date. But his argument is "Which other sport has so much to offer? Clean fresh air, mountain scenery, bars and restaurants everywhere to refuel and on the chair lift up he enjoys a cigarette without bother from the Nicotine Nazis!"
And here is where my uncle has a good point. Although he is a bore on the subject, he is practising something good. Maybe the paradise island that my friend Leanne likes to mention is a little difficult to arrive to but we might go skiing, breathe the non-toxic, suicidal air, clear our minds, try to have a good time and while you're whizzing along the snow alone and with a clear mind get to know yourself more and try to get something positive out of yourself. It's good to know yourself before meeting all the other suicidal arses... although I still love the idea of the paradise island!
P.S Leanne, I've got a confession to make. This may sound lame like your friend's excuse about not giving you a Christmas card but this is the truth. I swear on a stack of bibles (or whatever you believe in) that I had the intention of sticking some kisses to you at the end of my last post but I'm so used to not giving kisses that I forgot! Actually I do blow quite some kisses, but always from afar. When I see a girl that once helped me in something or came to talk to me (not because she wanted something from me) I blow kisses from afar. Going up to her and hugging her and kissing her really is just not for me. First of all she will think I'm a nut (which isn't far off the mark really) and secondly she would be embarassed because she would want hugs and kisses from someone else and not from me. And after all people don't go berserk because they see someone who once helped them in a small thing or talked to them. But, you understand, for me it's so special because it happens very few times. Well, hope you believe me... these are for you xxxxx and by the way, Happy Birthday, (I know it's late to say it but I wanted to anyway), and I hope you enjoyed the cake xxxxx
See ya on the slopes...
|14 Oct 2003||Leanne||Happy Birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me-ee, happy birthday to me!.. Well actually it was yesterday but what the hell. (A bit of irony for you all here... I was born on the 13th). Something strange happened yesterday, my parents paid attention to me. It was wierd, it felt wrong, bad, naughty even. It's nice to see they are nice enough to pay the slightest bit of attention to me at least one day a year... awwwww. (If you're that desperate to know my age, do your homework, play Sherlock and go back in time.) Gay Punk, my hand is firmly up, coz I missed you. You know who else im missin... Just a Girl... seriously, this is bad, does anyone have an idea where she's got to? And Chris, I had a slice of cake last nite... and do you know what... I want another! Right now, there's an assignment heaped up in a pile to my left, it's staring and laughing at me coz it knows I haven't a clue what to do with it. So I'm taking up other more important activities such as saying hello to you guys in hope that it's gonna write itself or even better-disappear! I'm gonna look back at it now and I expect to see it gone... ..damn, it's still there. I dunno what else I can do to avoid it, I've done everything I can think of... such as cups of tea, seeing what's on T.V, silly conversations with my dog, what else is there? I'm not college material... what kind of polluted-intoxicating-London-smog-air was I high on at the time when I decided to enrol? And get this... I received another assignment on my B'day on.. 'Adolescence'! (Psychology-is that how you spell it?) :-(
P.S David Blaine is coming out of the box next monday! I'm thinking about going to that Paradise Island soon :-)
|11 Oct 2003||Chris||I've heard Leanne say that she doesn't eat, I've heard others here say that they eat too much. Suicide and food is a really complicated matter. Personally, I love indulging in something good when I'm depressed and bored.
For us, eating does not involve hunger. When you're bored, depressed and suicidal you'll poke around barefoot in the kitchen, eat a slice of cheese maybe, or nibble a tomato in the light of the open fridge. When you're tired, short-bread buiscuits drunked in coffee usually do the trick. Feeling a bit low? You let chocolate dissolve in your mouth, brainwashing your mind that it's too late to live fast and die young, so what's the point of giving up chocolate? On a morning when you're feeling sadistic because you're late again for school, a packet of crisps which has stood around for ages and tastes like an old and very lonely sock is a fair punishment. The smell of baking reassures you and a simmering pot consoles you. Snacks in bed are bliss, while you push your food around the plate when you are feeling agitated or guilty. When you're sad (most of the time!), you starve yourself, or indulge in sacrificial fattening.
Food is symbolic, and our relationship with it is complicated in both rich and disturbing ways, especially with women. While we men swallow our food too quickly to properly taste it, a woman intakes intensely and looks at her body, so food is not necessarily a need! But that's because men and women come from different planets. For instance, have you ever wondered that when women delay getting married, we call it "independence", but when men do it it's called "fear of commitment"? But beyond sexual generalisations, eating is not about eating. It's about emotions. It's about orders and disorders (and we seem to have a lot of disorders). That's why eating more or eating less is not about the quantity of food consumed, but about upbringing, personality, peer pressure, and a whole psychological babble which at a time or another someone from mouchette seems to have experienced! Or even about culture- ever wondered that obesity may be ingrained in our obsession not to leave anything on our plate?
You do not catch anorexia, or bulimia, from Vogue magazine. The pages of this and other fashion magazines do not carry some kind of bacteria that will make you anorexic. Nor does fashion TV emit radioactive waves. Eating disorders do not have anything to do with fashion, and they are not trendy zeitgest illnesses. Anorexia has existed in medical literature since 1968, so there is no point in trying to relate the cause of the illness to current pop-cultural issues. The truth is far more complicated.
The underlying causes of eating disorders are psychological, or even genetic. Far more complex, in other words, than the simple desire to fit into a size six. And like alcoholism and drug addiction, eating disorders can tear victims, family and friends apart. Yes, I know you like to see your family and 'friends' torn apart but is it worth it tearing yourself apart for it? To suggest that all this is caused by a jealousy of Kate Moss or Kylie Minogue is quite insulting.
So yes, the fashion industry can pat itself on the back- it is not from reading too many copies of a magazine that people decide to starve themselves to death. And yet, when models are becoming increasingly bony, when the ideal clothing size is diminishing each year, with the Academy Awards becoming simply an excuse for actresses to flop their hip bones and clavicles, when women who just about still need to wear a bra are called 'curvy', there is something very unhealthy going on.
So you ask: "Dear Chris, this is getting quite boring, where is this digging? And if you've just learned something about food disorders do you think we really give a fuck?" No friends, I'm not interested in stupid details about this thing but this goes to show how much misunderstood we are. People think that we are trying to copy a model but in fact we are only feeding our depression and desires and relying on food as a punishment or consolation prize. Once persons become severely anorexic or bulimic, they are usually too locked into their own little world to care about models and actresses. They are so involved with their special rules, permissions and punishments that operate inside their head that they are too busy to read glossies.
But when they try to recover, it is very difficult to shake off their beliefs and paranoia when every magazine cover seems to validate them and makes them seem normal. Models and actresses have become normally thin and have normally jutting bones. It is expected of them, the media expects it and we expect it. This then becomes a vicious circle, with such images of skinniness being seen as the image of a successful and fashionable woman. So dear anorexic girl who is trying or not trying to get out of your problem, either way you're fucked! Now, isn't that suicidal?
I talked a lot about women but it's not only them. Try looking for men's clothes with sizes 36 and over in the most fashionable houses and you'll know how impossible it is to find them. Agreed- models don't cause anorexia or bulimia, but that does not mean that the fashion and film industries are off the hook. We have to ask: why are women who weigh seven stones venerated as icons of beauty? Why do models and actresses have to be so thin and elongated that they look as if they have been taken through a distorting lens, transforming them into another species? Arms that knot into the shoulders, sinews showing, hip bones jutting, hollows in the buttocks, ribs climbing like a ladder up the body, a sculpted face, they look like a disappearing act. Aren't they meant to look great?
And if you think that film stars look great and you don't... it's only because that's the truth. Film stars have lots of free time, nannies and money. We don't! They look great all the time. We don't! But then, we're doing more important things than they are. (After all we're helping all the kids in the world from this site). We're not meant to be a nation of Bridget Joneses, obsessed about our body size and shape. So as you might have guessed I hate the super skinny look. Leanne, do this favour for me, keep healthy and don't hesitate to eat those chicken wings if you feel like it. I'm sure you and all the other girls on this site look better than Kate Moss. My suggestion is (if you're still reading and not bored)- do not read beauty magazines- they will only make you feel ugly, which you aren't. You do so many things which make you hate yourself, don't just hate yourself by looking in the mirror. And you'd better be on two diets since you won't get enough to eat with one.
P.S Leanne, first you sent me kisses, that was electrifying, now you say that there is something in me that turns you on, now that's really a blast! I've never heard a girl say something like that to me! And about your kisses being with me for eternity, it's not unfortunate at all, that would be lovely because you care and I know very few people who do that! Wonder if a photo of me would turn you on? Oh, I'm laughing my ass off!
See you at a restaurant indulging on some good food...
|10 Oct 2003||the gay punk||hey, anyone miss me?
(i see few hands)
how many don't miss me?
(i see few hands also)
how many don't give a shit?
(i see few hands, i shoot owner of those fucking hands, they die and don't need to off themselves anymore)
i'm back, well sort of. i'm still the fucked up person i am. thinking about it, trying on it, not succeding. if god existed he must be a fucking sadist dominatrix coz he's giving me a shit of a time.
i have a boyfriend now too, but doesn't know i want to kill myself
that's it, folks, and die happily, as you want to
p.s. um to those people who don't know me, don't ask, the people who know me might be dead by now
|04 Oct 2003||molli||I have no clue if anyone will remember me at all because well the last time I visited this site it was well Agust 9th it has almost been two months since I came here and well i hit a turn around.. I am safe, I made it I don't want to die and well I don't but this is my good-bye and thank you to u all .. if it weren't for u .. I would have never made it and I wanted to let u all know u made a great difference in my life... I love u all!|
|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
|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||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.
|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.