|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?
|21 Dec 2003||LeanneaboutChris||I'm back but not better. I've been busy thinking about trying not to think. Feeling too much or too little, I'd rather feel nothing. I used to feel numb, nothing, frozen and blank. Now, I'd actually like that back... too much emotion is a poison. I've gained bad times, and lost the good&distant ones. I have been longing and yearning for something, someone. A figment of my imagination perhaps? Somebody who can see the 'me' inside, who I wish was here but can't be. I lost touch, but keeping in touch just isn't enough.
I didn't forget about the one that mattered, and still does matter, just tried to erase him from my mind. Out of sight, out of mind? Been there, done that... doesn't work.
Festive season is amongst us yet again... don't be a stranger. Keep loving and most importantly keep living.
|20 Dec 2003||billy the freak||wow, i am very impressed with all of you, your writing of course. i finally got time to read some of the posts. mouchette, you're looking beautiful as always. chris, you are absolutely right. this is a safe place where you can express yourself, in many ways. some people come in here and just babble about nothing but they feel better when they're done, some people come in here and scream about how they want to hang their neck up and never come back. makes wonder if they might be hanging from a ceiling beam somewhere. you got people who want to give their best advice and hope they can save a life. then you got the ones who want to use it as a creative outlet like myself. i personally feel that's what makes this interesting. i was here from the beginning and right now this piece of art is taking a wonderful shape. be safe and have a happy holiday season.
lucy, have a wonderful christmas darling!!!
|20 Dec 2003||Chris||I know you've been waiting for a continuation of 9th December's post. So here it comes...
Anyway, the potatoes (yeah, you remember I was boiling potatoes) were done. I got off bed which juttted out of a double-doored closet and went into the coffin-sized kitchen, 'kitchenette' was the euphemism used on the For Rent sign. I grabbed the handle of the pan in a hot pad, held the lid loosely over the top and poured the hot water into the sink, devastating as I did a long column of ants marching over the porcelain on their way to the cupboard. Then I let the potatoes roll and bump out onto my plate, four dead boiled potatoes. I took them into the other room and sat down on the edge of the bed to eat.
There was one window in the room and the raspberry-coloured walls added to the gloom. As I put forkfuls of potato in my mouth and they formed a metallic-tasting mucilage, I told myself I had to learn to cook. I was a long way from the quite good food you eat in average restaurants, let alone the posh ones. Maybe I could check out a cookbook from the library. I had lots of time to learn to cook...
I began to have the idea I didn't know what I was. It seemed I had, once, but apparently I had thought I was what I was doing. That had been all right when I had been a boy who was always happy, a dreamer who dreamed about love and changing the world into a better place, a good boy who studied and worked hard at school, a boy who made people laugh with him instead of at him and a boy who had an enthusiasm for life in general, California style bon vivant. But to apply the same standard now to the 'all dreams shattered', loveless, non-enthusiastic approach, miserable creature lying on a bed at noon in a cheap room, lunching on boiled potatoes, that called for a conclusion about myself that I didn't want to make.
Trying to see myself from the point of view of other people didn't help. I barely know other people and they all seem stupidly the same. And still I couldn't feel the guilt of anything I've done in life and I still couldn't understand why people always laugh at me or say stupid things about me in hushed tones. None of the things I thought of helped. I could really only concentrate on what lay immediately before me, the problems of studying and eating. However memory helped by hurting. Memory brought pain which obscured necessity. Love hadn't left me, only the people I had loved had. So my friends and my imaginary girlfriend remained to dart into my thoughts when I was at my most unprotected, remained to confuse my focus on survival.
It worked the other way round too, the need of surviving distorted my love. As now, lying back on the bed with my hand over my eyes, disgusted, depressed, breathing only because I had no choice, my imagination gave me my imaginary girlfriend and then mocked what I had been given. With the image of this 'girlfriend' came the thought that I had ommitted a noise in my catalogue of sounds, the trickling toilet in the bathroom. And as if that wasn't enough it had to be degraded even more. A girlfriend, and longing for a girlfriend, and a popular tune, a trickling toilet, a tune twisted into a parody for self-humiliation, the connections rushed into my mind, I had to admit the thought belonged to me, 'a trickling toilet in the next apartment, those stumbling words...' couldn't be what my heart meant!
I fixed my eyes on the raspberry ceiling. It was too ugly a hue to create an atmosphere of sentimentality, and the light bulb with its flowered cloth skirt had its own dime-store harshness. With a kind of relief I managed to fasten my mind on these things. The blotchy paint, the forty-watt bulb, and the skirt, handmade with a dirty, rough touch to it. These things told me where I was, told me I was Chris in a cheap room with lots of shit to study and work at and no better idea of what to do than lie on my back on a metal bed and examine the ceiling. I reached for a newspaper lying nearby and stared to read an article before I realised I had made a decision to stop wasting my time and work. But what could I do? How could I catch up with the rest? How was I to be as good as, or even better than the rest of the people who have been working their nuts off all year round? But then I realised, it didn't really matter what it was, I just knew that I had to do something, to move on in life, so maybe one day I could earn some proper money, to prove myself that I could do that much (because even if painfully, school and work are the only things going for me in life, so if I even fail in that, I'm pretty fucked!) So from today, I swear I'm gonna do more than just stare around and waste my time!
See ya slavin' your nuts off!
|16 Dec 2003||billy the freak||:hey there looking at me, what it is you see. what is it about you that i adore? try to find some words i can use. don't got the courage to come up to you. my chances are looking a bit grey. i'm staring across the room. are you leaving soon? i just need a little time. oh no it happened again walked away with her boyfriend maybe we'll meet again someday... someday...
i found myself in a bar room with my best friend searching for something. cigarette smoke loomed in air and made everyone look fuzzy through its transparent wisps of death. the smell of alcohol was bitter, the taste was sweet. i found it.
she was dancing by the juke box. the light shining off her soft milky skin made her look heavenly... like some sort of fallen angel. i imagined two bloody stumps where her wing should have been and was insanely aroused. when i felt the twitch below my belt i decided to order another drink.
"bartender... a double of rum and a beer to chase them down." he assured me that he got my order by repeating it back to me using different words.
"a twin pirate boiler maker coming right up." i gave him a quick nod and pat my friend's shoulder to get his attention.
"hey, look over there by the juke box... my angel." he looked over by the juke box then back at me.
"she's alright... i guess." i was outraged by his response.
"she's alright... you guess." i mocked him in a unpleasent tone. "man, she looks like heather gram."
"yeah, a skinny heather gram" he said, matter of factly.
"dude, she's not skinny!" i snapped at him.
"you're right, she's not skinny." he said with with a smile. "she's anorexic."
"fuck you asshole, you don't know what your talking about. she is beautiful and i'm going to go talk to her" i said, just about spitting in his face.
"alright man, you know i was just goofing around". my buddy jay always has jokes, and he knows me better then anyone. that's why i love him. "if you're going to go over there, you need to calm down and think of something to say, or you're just going to choke up again."
he was absolutely right. what was i going to say? i have a bad problem with my words slipping out my mouth and falling to the floor. it is embarrassing when i got to pick them up. i shot down my rum and drank my beer, then it hit me. i will simply tell her she looks like heather gram.
i got up and took off in the direction of the juke box. my heart started thumping. i passed the pool tables. my head started spinning and instead of going straight i turned left and headed right into the bathroom into the stall onto my knees and puked. i insantly felt better and figured i would relieve my bladder while i was in there.
i walked over to the sink and looked in the mirror. i looked horrible. i washed my face and rinced out my mouth the best i could. i choked and this time i didn't even get to talk to her. i felt pathetic. i looked in the mirror one last time. i siked myself up the best i could, because i wasn't going down without a fight. i told myself... i told myself i could do this.
i came out the bathroom with my head high and my intentions set, but something was wrong. i couldn't find my angel. i walked over to the bar where my friend was.
"I saw your little detour there partner."he said with his glass held to his mouth.
"where did she go?" i asked him in a low embarassed tone.
"her old man came in and told her it was time to go. you wouldn't have got her anyway."
i sat down, ordered a drink and blew air from the deepest part of my lungs. when jay said. "let's get a burger."
"yeah" i said, "a hamburger sounds good right now."
|13 Dec 2003||Chris||Justin, I'm sorry too for you are TOTALLY wrong. Some facts: I am NOT married, I am still a teen myself, I DO NOT have any kids. I think you are confusing me with the Chris who wrote on 26th November 2003 (The name Chris who's not me has cropped up some other times and I had warned that it wasn't me, I thought there wasn't need to warn again)! And I doubt if you read that carefully. He didn't say he has two kids but he has: "a beautiful 2 year old daughter". In his post he also says that after watching some documentary he: "searched and stumbled on this site" which clearly shows he was the first time here (and I am far from a first timer! He also left his e-mail address which I never do (I think that's proof enough that I'm not trying to "get action" from here) and over all what he wrote is not my kind of writing! And from all those really "gross pleas from female names" I can only remember two who have talked directly to me regularly in their posts; Leanne and Mauvais! Surely it's not that much. And I still respect and love them a lot. I have e-mailed Mauvais, but only on her request and I can swear I'm not playing up. And Justin, you haven't got the WHOLE point of mouchette.org. For us long timers here, the What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13? is just a rhetoric question that can build up a train of thought. Yes, I've written about suicide but suicide is not all there is. As long as we're still alive things that make us either happy or sad are happening all the time and one would want to share his/her experiences. Mouchette.org is our home. You are also wrong about the etiquette of this site. Anything, anyone posts is shown to everybody because everyone can have his say or opinion, even personal attacks, although they might hurt. You also said "offering help to people". I never directly did that. I need help myself (but then it was the other Chris who offered it directly too). You also call the Chris you're talking about a "gentleman" and then you imply that he's probably a: "sick man on this board hoping to find young, impressionable and depressed teens for some action)! I wouldn't call that kind of man a 'gentleman'! I think I have dissected all your message and proved you wrong all the way. Before you talk, read all evidence carefully, think and do your homework. Your post was a shabby piece made on lots of bits and pieces which are untrue (and can be easily seen as untrue)!
Looking at it more positively, I can make two points. Fist is that it's good to talk/criticise if you feel something is not right or not fully understandable, and maybe request an answer for some particular post. Second point is that sick people on this site should IMMEDIATELY move out. I hate peadophiles and peadophelia. If anyone thinks this is a joke or a game, fuck off. If anyone is playing around, he/she is a really sick, perverted player!
Can I prove that what I said is the holy truth? No, you just have to trust me! But then, I trust you that you are not a sick player yourself, that you are who you say you are. (The action is easier for you as people can actually contact you because you left your e-mail) and I trust you that all your mistakes were genuine and not to try and fuck me up!
Anyways, enough of that! For those who've been dying for the continuation of last time's post... wait some more, because I have ran out of time!
P.S Thanks Mauvais for that post. Couldn't have said it better myself but I just wanted to enforce the point!
See ya soon...
|11 Dec 2003||MauvaisSouhait||Justin, i'm sorry to inform you but Chris is not a bad guy at all. Maybe the Chris you were thinking of is perhaps someone different. This Chris, my Chris is a unique person. Not married, younger than you in fact. He's caring, sweet and wouldn't be on here to just "get action" seeing as how he does not leave his e-mail. This chat is not for just talking about how to kill urself if you are under 13. That is just something to get you to think. If you look at my comments you can tell, we don't talk about this much. The people who have been here for a while understand. It's alright to write about things other than that, to write how you feel, whatever it is you desire. This is a place to be yourself. I hope you understand.|
|09 Dec 2003||Chris||I ended up for a week in a rented room. It was supposed to be with friends but I always was alone while my 'friends' were out. While I was alone I began to notice noises. Maybe before I had never noticed it but now it seemed to me that noise surrounded, almost overwhelmed, my life. I woke up to noise and was aware of a crescendo until about one o'clock when there was a lull. Then the volume and variety grew even more slowly until between four-thirty and six-thirty came the fantastic din. The city shaking every noisemaker it possessed. Then another lull before evening had its own rumbling and, last of all, only a few lonely cars speeding down the streets long after midnight.
Now I was near the peak of the noon crescendo and lying on my bed one small rich sound, which it seemed odd I could hear at all, emphasised the rest of the din. I heard a bell, from a church or public building. In one pitch it struck four stately quarter-hours and then changed to a deeper voice for the long business of tolling twelve o'clock noon. It sounded beautiful. On its behalf I began to list its competition.
Traffic contibuted most of the clangor, a grotesque choir of unharmonised horns, whining differentials, outraged transmissions, suffocated screaming engines, frightened brakes. Then there were airplanes, whooshing or droning overhead, and, never long between them, sirens wailing human catastrophe. Voices joined in, gobbbling like turkeys, shrieking, shouting, laughing, pouting, humming monotonously some lyric to their thoughts, and voices and music from radios, telling the news, selling, giving, protesting, promising, lying by the hundreds of violins, agitating with the hoarse moan of saxophone.
My own room more humbly did its share. The window chattered in its old putty to a truck's throb in the alley, footsteps walked over a thin carpet to knock at or unlock a door, the floor always quivered from the surge of an automatic washer or dryer in a room on the street floor below; dishes and pans clattered and sometimes crashed in sinks, the bedsprings beneath me gave cricket cries when I moved and from the hotplate the salted water boiled softly among some potatoes I was cooking.
BONG and silence and whether anyone had listened or not it was definitely twelve o'clock. Hearing the bell it occurred to me that I didn't really need my watch. In my room I always seemed to hear the bells and on the streets many stores had clocks. I took my hand from under the pillow and looked at my watch, a good one, from my parents given to me on a Christmas many moons ago. I thought of giving it back to them and telling them that it only brings bad memories to me (although they will not understand) and the act seemed too childish. It took me a few seconds to realise that the watch didn't read noon but a quarter after, and when I took it off to reset it I saw that the gold was wearing thin here and there, that the face had darkened unevenly; and a watch which ran fast was more expensive to fix than one which ran slow (this watch had become like a reflection of my life, so shitty and weary). I could get some money if I could find anyone who would buy it. And ten minutes more for my boiled potatoes to be ready.
I heard my next door neighbour, a woman, come in for lunch. Betweem the time she slammed her door shut and I heard her opening kitchen cupboards was never more than a minute. Quick and efficient on her lunch hour. I didn't know what she looked like. I had planned to be coming down the hall at noon but I didn't care that much. The worst thing that happened since I was being left all the time alone was that I didn't want to see anyone more than ever. She turned on the radio and now and then when there was something she knew she sang, just a patch of it and then humming or silence as her hands became busy. It was impossible to tell her age from her voice.
I thought, for a kind of self-justification, that the morning had been a waste of time- but of course it hadn't. I had lay down on my bed observing and appreciating sounds and noises. So when you think you're alone, hear the sounds, noises and voices around you and you realise with the presence of life around you. The sounds are not gonna cheer you up but it may be better than the sound of silence creeping in on you like death, freaking you out and making you think more about suicide until you do it...
To be continued...
P.S. Leanne, that was really kool of you. You may feel so shitty with no enthusiasm to write here also but it's nice to pop in from time to time; say hello or say fuck off, anything, as long as I know you're still there. You helped me a lot although I will not tell you to write or not to write, to commmit suicide or not to commit suicide but until you're still here might as well say something. Love you always! xxxxxxx
So until the continuation.... See ya!
|08 Dec 2003||Felicia The Great||Dear Billy,
I choked on an artichoke salad this morning. Does that count for assisted suicide?
Going postal is too old. Try working as an airport screener instead; that way you can flabbergast the passengers by saying one of them had a gun in their can of hairspray, and everyone will think youre a hero.
|30 Nov 2003||Chris||I spend a disproportionate amount of my money on clothes. From that statement you might be forgiven for coming to the conclusion that I am more than a little vain, however the truth is quite opposite. I have no doubt that I, like most of the population, look considerably better dressed in my birthday suit. In fact it comes as nothing if not a pleasure and delight when winter comes and I can stop exposing my plump, pink flesh to the public gaze. So what has brought this clothes or no clothes subject to the front of my cluttered mind? The fact is, I seem to encounter yet another group of decidedly unattractive people ripping their kit off, (in the name of charity), every time I open a newspaper or switch on the television. The latest was a choir in England who, before a smutty imagination can run away with you, is a cathedral ensemble made up of an astounding range of middle-aged shapes and sizes. This, of course, hot on the heels of yet another English fire brigade baring it all for a Christmas calendar and the news that an artist in New York managed to talk about seven thousand people to pose nude in Grand Central Station. Of course, the really big one (in more ways than one) is the pin-up calendar of well past their 'best before date' Women's Institute ladies in the UK. These ladies of a certain age even went on to have their nude exploits turned into a movie!
I know it's all in the name of charity but take a look around you as you read this and tell me honestly that most people would raise more money by charging a fee to keep their togs on. I may be wrong and just at this moment there is a super photo shoot taking place of a group in the raw... now you can let your imagination take wings and try to picture leading politicians in the buffs or perhaps a collection of naked taxi drivers would encourage you to donate to charity or maybe your favourite journalist or tv presenter will persuade eleven fellow journalists/presenters into baring it all.
Well, if you are one who keeps up with the trends and want to help someone (by charity or otherwise), before committing that crucial suicide, going naked is the thing to do. But don't go betting that I will actually donate or help if I see you naked. Well, maybe I will, if you promise that I can leave my clothes on!
See ya naked!
|24 Nov 2003||billy the one and only||it has gotten to the point... where i believe that the only way to fix my problem, is not to kill myself, but to kill every one else. i have a all or nothing attitude... and personally i want it all.|
|24 Nov 2003||Chris||Nasty things have a way of happening even though intentions may be a compilation of the very best. Think of parents saying and doing shit that they think make you happy but in fact they depress you so much. Think of the Chinese government. They thought their one child per couple scheme was going to take care of over population. What they didn't count on was the creating of a mind-boggling number of Chinese only children all being spoiled by their own parents and extended family.
Today's kids are competing in the spoilt child olympic games. Qualifying for the spoilt child olympics takes energy, grit and dtermination, with continous support and cheering on by stupid doting parents and grandparents. Kids are becoming rulers of the here, there and everywhere, including street, school, house and the bathroom. And their expectations are high and lordly, expecting an all singing, all dancing performance from even the most mundane object, such as the bloody automatic toothbrush. (Everythiing's gone automatic, they'll probably soon invent an automatic ass cleaner!). Giiven that the only physical exercise most children get these days is brushing their teeth, why give them toothbrushes that do all the work? It won't be long before they will be demanding automatic contraptions to blow their noses for them.
Kids even dictate eating family habits, with cereals created to resemble little waffles and fried potatoes in the shape of super little heroes. They also dictate what stories to be told before going to sleep and the choice always falls on bloody Harry Potter or such like. Parents might either comply by ferrying their children to activities, sheering offspring and keeping them and their clothes clean, or they can avoid this by encouraging children to take up a variety of hobbies. These will keep kids occupied, and parents poor! Any form of rebellion from the parents would only lead to historic shedding of tears. Extra points in the spoiled child olympics are always given for children turning blue in the face or throwing up.
And there go the parents, buying useless shit for the kids again. And are the kids ever happy? No, they are not! There's nothing else that these kids can do in life because everything is ready made. There's nothing original. Their stupid parents just want them to do well in their exams. Some of the kids cannot make it. Those who do are covered with gifts. Those who don't are jealous for the gifts. There's a lot of shouting, screaming and crying from both parents and kids. No one is happy. Parents work kard to get money. Kids don't really give a fuck, they get what they want, get pissed with it, break it and forget all about it. When they reach that special age of thirteen they have either adopted the face with the stupid smile of senseless happiness or either have adopted the sad, depressed suicidal face. Then there are a few like me and most of you who all they need is a damn good hug, a damn good kiss, a damn good day and some damn good love and I will live.
I know what you're thinking. Aren't most of us of a young age? So are you saying we are spoilt, stupid brats? No friends, I'm not saying that. From what I read here I realise that we are the people who know what real life is. We've seen and felt pain and we are still living through it. And I can hardly say I always got what I want. I think I have always been reasonable but others do not want to be reasonable with me. With me, it's always less rather than more. Believe me, I never wanted more. I'm proud that I'm not a spoilt man with a goddamn stupid face with a stupid smile.
It's quite terrifying when a three year old appears to be the most powerful person in a room. It's equally frightening to see that all primary school children have computers, televisions in their rooms, all totemic of parents over-compensating for their own less idyllic childhood. Not to mention birthday presents for four year olds which include mobile-phones to talk to their friends, anytime, anywhere. What happened to the odd bicycle race around the block or an evening spent in lazy corners as means of communication. Call me so 20th century again but this shit is making kids more depressed and suicidal. The children's appetite for whatever the market offers is also created by the market itself which targets children as the new, all powerful consumer group. No wonder Gucci has recently launched its new children's range, with a mink coat or a leather jacket on offer for just 1,125 pounds! This is the price we are paying for a 24-7 society where things to buy are on offer any time of the day, from actual or online shops. It's the price we are paying for having more money and being more affluent. Put unparalleled affluence alongside a willingness to indulge, and you have the most sad, spoilt generation ever brought up. Blame the parents, and Freud.
But their sadness has no real basis, not like us. Life is just sad for them. You know why? The very accomplishments and good fortune parents so despeartely desire to share with their children put them at risk. The body cannot learn to adapt to stress unless it experiences it. Indulged children are often less able to cope with stress because their parents have created an atmosphere where their whims are indulged, when they have always assumed that they are entitled to everything and that life should be a bed of roses, something which we all here have known all along. The spoilt kids will get to know it later, and disappointment can be greater. Spoilt children grow into arrogant car drivers who bump their way through traffic as if the road was theirs.
I don't think we want more of that. Life is already too depressing. So you see we have a shithead generation that came before us and a shithead generation coming after us. Are we perfect? Of course we ain't but I don't rule out being the best. When you want to think positive think: 'I'm not the one who should commit suicide, the rest of the human poulation should'. Impossible, but nice!
P.S. Asshole, sorry to say this but you chose the perfect name, because you talked like an..... asshole. I never said or tried to show that I know everything. Actually, I barely know anything. Just enough to feel the pain and be real. And another thing. (What I'm going to say has already been said but it's worth telling again). Look up suicide kit in your dictionary of choice and what do you find? Hey, presto....nothing! (If you are so keen on references look back on the site for someone named Phil/Lucy for the exact quote) So I write what I feel and if there is someone being shallow, narrow and naive, I think it's you! As our Phil/Lucy friend would have said, don't talk pap!
Mauvais, Harry, Leanne, etc I love you but can you reduce the 'wonderful writer' talk please? It's nice to know that someone reads this shit and cares, but say different stuff.
Love u all
See ya, and don't be spoilt kids....
|16 Nov 2003||Chris||Until this morning, I can honestly say I didn't give much thought to my chin, unless I was in the process of shaving it. It seemed a perfectly adequate chin, something for my lower lip to rest on while I was watching television, but otherwise nothing to write home about. Going by the most basic criteria, I thought I had a fairly normal chin that would get an average mark if it sat for exams! But that was before I took my eyes for a walk in a men's glossy and they fell on an article about chin implants, dealing with the modern problem men face when their weak chins are seen as a portrayal of a weak character. Now I can't stop looking at my chin and everyone else's, and even caught myself greeting another member of the species with "Hey buddy, nice chin", as he grinned his way down the street.
Until now, I can only say I only gave some thought to my chin. Now I've started noticing my eyes, nose and ears too. A weak chin (whatever a weak chin is really) can be disguised under a three weeks growth but what about weak eyes or weak ears. Call me so 20th century, but the thought of having a chin implant makes me go a little weak at the knees. Oh my god, do I have weak knees too? But I do realise I am in a minority. Plastic surgery hasn't quite taken off to some extremes all over the world as it has in America, but business is booming and many are in search of a better body through a quick nip and tuck. More are just waiting for the word that it's completely safe, and they would be in the surgery's waiting room in a flash, eager to have their wrinkles and lines zapped away like magic and their lips grown a fuller shade of luscious.
Thankfully, most of us do not have a national characteristic to hide from. Otherwise, we would follow Chinese women who are having their eyelids sliced open and restitched to create a western-style fold. (Believe me, I don't know why the fuck they are doing it! I know some very sexy Chinese girls with Chinese eyes). South Asians who prefer their stronger noses reduced and tilted at the tip. In some other countries the national characteristic is emphasised rather than downplayed- Brazil, where plastic surgery was pioneered by Professor Ivo Pitanguy, is a typical case.
We live in a surgical age. Almost everybody is doing it, a nip here, a tuck there, a syringe of Botox in between. Cosmetic surgery in the world today is like sex in the Victorian era, everyone is doing it but we're too ashamed to talk about it. Silicone is a logical extension of the developed world's consumer culture- growing affluence, the economic dependence of the individual and the acceptibility, even admiration, at spending so much time, money and attention on our appearance. We go to the gym, dye our hair, bleach our teeth, and cosmetic surgery is fast becoming just the next step along the path all around the world.
In America, women of all ages and from all walks of life are well and truly hooked on surgery, and the latest thing to do with your best friend is no longer shopping or a holiday, but sharing the experience of cosmetic surgery. The latter is fast becoming an extension of the high-maintenance lifestyle, especially of busy American women who treat their appearance as a tool.
On the other side of the Atlantic, hundreds of Britons are taking holidays in South Africa and coming home looking years younger, owing more to the surgeon than the sun. Botox injections to remove forhead wrinkles, liposuction, tummy tuck, nose jobs, blow jobs (oops, that's not why you go to a surgeon), eye lifts and breast surgery are all surging in popularity, especially with women. Men like to have less extensive work.
Like it or not we do judge, and are judged by appearance. It would be lovely if we lived in a utopia where everybody accepted everyone's looks but we don't. And although we may complain about the commodification of the body, it's only an extension of the premium that we have always placed on good looks. We worship the cult of apperance before substance. We judge and are judged on appearance. Not only attractiveness, but qualities such as friendliness, intelligence and honesty are all seen as deficient in the plain or plain ugly, enhanced in the good looking. So the fact that beauty can be bought at a price not only leads to a happy transformation of the body, but can also be an injection of confidence to our personalities. Our personalities are not just affected by our looks, but created by them. Improved looks promise promotions at work or prospects of love and maybe some of us may feel so down because we think that we do not look good.
Well, why have I been saying all this? I think you all realise that what these people are doing is try to preserve their youth for as long as they can. These people want to live forever. They don't feel that at 40 they should replace mini skirts and thongs with extremely long skirts and normal boring panties. We want to die. But on the other hand we are the only people who know the secret for living forever and remaining young forever. If you commit suicide at 18, you will remain 18 forever, sexy and oh so lovely as I am sure you all are! So hail to our eternal youth, life, death and suicide! Let's keep our little beauty secret for ourselves and tell all the others to fuck off.
I hope this put a smile upon your faces. Recently I was reading this interview of this younger than me person (about 15). He presents a show on tv and he keeps bragging over it and about how beautiful his life is and about all his girlfriends that he went out with and where he keeps all his love letters (yes, he already seems to have had a lot and I have had none!) and how much he loves religious relaxing music and how religious and at peace with himself he is and how sweet and how he thinks that girls masturbate so much thinking about him and how many plans for the future he has, blah, blah, blah! I am exactly the opposite but strangely, it is at times like these that I feel so proud of being myself, normal, boring, lonely bog standard Chris. He sounds so artificial. He is just another sheep from the herd which is the human race, stupid face, stupid smile, stupid ideas and stupid everything. We are the black sheep (and we should be proud of it). I'm down to earth and realistic at least. Let this boy fuck off! And my chin will remain the same and the rest of my body will do too. I want flesh and not plastic and who doesn't like it can fuck off!
P.S Mauvais, I got your e-mail. Lovely! I will send back and answer your questions so hang in there my dear Donielle.
Leanne, you were right. It is so ironic to tell people to hold on more when you know that your own personal wish is to end it all. Maybe I do it out of jealousy but I am sure that I do it out of love too. I love you so much I don't want to lose you. If I was sure that after this life ends there is something better I would really encourage everyone to end his life as soon as possible but I don't know. Well, now I feel much more mixed up..... sorry!
Luv u xxxxxx
See ya in eternal life/death...
|09 Nov 2003||Chris||Rejoice, Mauvais is still with us. For a change I could remove a burden off my shoulders so I e-mailed at once but she never e-mailed back. What's wrong luv? I see you are asking us if you should try again. Can you just hang in there some more, we love you. How do you hang in there? er, just think stupid thoughts, read and memorise stupid information and do stupid things. Sounds complicated and stupid? I'll try to explain...
There are two types of mind, one which absorbs knowledge selecting it and sifting the incoming information, retaining the really useful stuff for later retrieval and appreciation in order to become wiser and more successful in life. And then there is brain-type two, which for no known reason does the opposite, dumping anything useful or worthwile but hanging onto other pieces of useless rubbish it encounters. The reason I will never drive a Jaguar, dress French expensive suits and take my holidays in the Bahamas is obvious... I have a type-two intellect, desperately clinging onto the useless while promptly losing any knowledge which could be translated into hard cash. For a while a few years ago, when the game Trivial Pursuit was launched, the fact that I could churn out useless information was quite handy and I enjoyed a brief period when the pursuit of the trivial seemed like an achievement, but sadly the craze soon died down. Recently the internet has played an increasingly big role in the lives of people like me. It is a bottomless pit of the most useless information imaginable, and rarely a day passes that doesn't see the influx of more absolutely useless information into my mailbox.
Here are some that arrived the other day. Read them and then ask yourself if you would like the type of brain that told you that they are worth committing to memory... The first couple to be shown in bed together on prime time TV were Fred and Wilma Flinstone. It's impossible to lick your elbow. The first novel ever written on a typewriter was Tom Sawyer. If a statue in the park of a person on a horse has both front legs in the air, the person died in battle. If the horse has one front leg in the air the person died as a result of wounds received in battle. If the horse has all four legs on the ground, the person died of natural causes. In Shakespeare's time, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Hence the phrase: "Goodnight, sleep tight".
It was the accepted practice in Babylon 4000 years ago that for a month after the wedding, the bride's father would supply his son-in-law with all the mead he could drink. Mead is a honey beer and because their calendar was lunar based this period was called the honey month. Today we use the phrase: 'honeymoon'. In English pubs, ale is ordered in pints and quarts. So in old England, when customers got unruly the bartender would yell at them to mind their own pints and quarts and settle down. It's where we get the phrase: mind your P's and Q's...
Still have not got it yet? Well it can take your mind off suicide for some time. Er, can't explain further! Just hang in there some more Mauvais and please tell me that you got my e-mail and if you want I told you how to get mine!
P.S Leanne, are you still there? You used to write often and it has just been some time since you last wrote. I think about you. xxxxxx
See ya great thinkers!
|09 Nov 2003||amorvincensculpa||I have some trouble with words. Words of existence. 'Your' is a word of posession (sp?) nothing else; it means somebody else owns something, as in 'your life' not mine, not the government's, not my lover's, not a god's, yours and yours alone, to have or not to have. As you so choose. As I so choose. 'You're,' on the other hand, is a word of existence, meaning you are, and nothing else. It was Mauvais' choice. I respect that. It's my choice. Words can't touch what you are going through or what Mauvais is or was going though. I'm sorry, very sorry that happened. Between I and You, Chris? I know what that feels like--how horrible that is, when you have to trust that the other person won't saw you in half because they can. When they can give and you can give and somehow this other thing like light and common blood (even if there's no physical contact) happens.
I am sitting here and I realize that I can't tell whether that's the sound of the fan over my bed or the wind going through my soul, if I have one. He's at work, and I'm at home. I am alive because I don't want to hurt him, and I have somebody to hold, but beyond all reason with a knowing I can't explain, I must be dead. It feels like a waste of resources; I feel like it is my destiny to die by my own hand.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore-
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load
Or does it explode?
What do you think, Chris? I think I could kill myself the best just by being me. Either way I'm gone, or it's all gone, or you're gone, or we're gone, my question is: now or later? I don't know if I'm dead inside or not. Where did my dreams go?
ee cummings said dying is perfectly normal, reasonable, "but death, oh baby i wouldn't like death, if death were good."
Chris, you can't Do or Say anything to anyone that can really make them change their mind if they've decided to do something or say something or feel something. But I love regardless. I can't help it. I wish I could. I did die, physically and otherwise, once, by my own hand. It's not that hard, really, easier to do than you would think. When you stop thinking and feeling, that is. Or when you feel yourself into being dead. I think I can remember what happened. I just pressed a few buttons on my insulin pump, lost my mind, hallucinated, screamed over the phone at some poor guy I had met at a flea market, lost consciousness, went into seizures, and died. Someone found my body. I was brought back, somehow. Probably with glucagon--it's a hormone--anyway.
Edward Fitzgerald said, "The moving finger writes, and having written, moves on. Nor all your piety nor wit, can undo one line, or change a word of it." Timothy McVeigh said that, before he was put to death. Bill Clinton said that when he gave a press conference.
I will die soon. But matter can neither be created nor destroyed. That is the law of the universe. I choose DNR (look it up), but I'll always be a smear on somebody's back porch. Or a shadow in a cement apartment, dying alone, having planned it that way, among all my books and years' worth of matter. My question is, why do people who end their own lives have to die alone? Mauvais wasn't alone Chris--she had you with her. I would like someone with me when I go. I thought that was tonight. I feel like I'm being toyed with. But I don't want to go alone. I liked what you said, Chris. I'm sorry that Mauvais, or you, is hurting. The you chose to go, and the I chose to live. Or do we choose such things? The choice is ours. I don't think we choose to love. Love complicates things. My heart, as it is, is with you both. Take care in whatever you choose. To die by your own hand or to stay alive by your own hand, either way, you are living.
|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!