|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?
|27 Sep 2003||Chris||Where does a 13 year old spend most of his/her time? Basically it's either at school or at home. So we ask can a child be suicidal about school? Of course he can! It's just that the 'child' only realises years and years later that his school days were not the best days of his life as we are incorrectly normally led to believe!
It all begins when you start assuming that your old school mates want to see you again. The fact that at school you were irrelevant and might have been forgotten doesn't enter your head. Meanwhile, you start lingering over the stationery and pleated trousers, take out your primary school excercise books and the old tie signed by all your back bench companions and scribbled with old cliches like "Keep in touch" and "We'll never forget you."
Two days later the nostalgia gets worse, so you send a tentative e-mail to a 'girl' you went to school with, wondering whatever happened to her and all those school friends you lost touch with. You immediately demand all the contact details of everyone and start firing 1,000-word epics across the country. "How about having a school reunion", you say. "Come on, it'll be fun". Of course, you're wagging your tail all over this school reunion business. After all, weren't you drop-dead popular at school, carried upon the shoulders of young lads with shining eyes and flushed cheeks? Didn't girls queue up after school skipping on their toes for just one glimpse of tousled hair hero you? Weren't you the up and always coming star of the football team?
Oh no, that was your friends. Suddenly like a rush of bad breath it all comes back to you. You were only there when it happened to them. And after all the inspired brain storming involved in the choosing of the bar and restaurant, after you send the last e-mail and hang up the last caller, realisation comes upon you that planning the school reunion was a very big, big mistake.
At school-leaving, you set controls for the heart of the sun. Years later, you have either taken the whole solar system with you or been frazzled to a crisp by the sun. And you find yourself at your school reunion, the one you planned, looking more like facing a job interview than someone on a fun night out, nervously chatting over your drinks (yes, you need a lot), balding heads and wrinkling faces. This wasn't what you had in mind when you started plotting on a Shakespearean scale. You hardly envisaged that you need strength for school reunions, because you need to be fairly secure to lay your life open to the scrutiny of your earliest critics. After all no one likes to admit to failing to become an astronaut or a rock star. And what if you turn up and everyone is richer, thinner, 'better' somehow than you?
School reunions are false hope. School reunions are unkind, all the more so since certain people may have stumbled on hard times, lost their jobs, looks, marriage or hair. School reunions are cruel reminders that you have been forgotten by all your companions, and when you return home, generally sad and with all dignity lost, you question not only the night out but the whole first part of your education and ponder- Are primary and secondary school days really the best days of our lives that our faith in history leads us to believe?
We start off with kindergarten and primary school, those seasons of cartoon character satchels and new pencil cases. For mothers, there's a clucking flurry of last-minute shopping for school clothes, sport shoes, colour coded plastic covers and stationery. For fathers, it's filling up the petrol tank for taxing children to school prior to a day at the office (but they are glad that they are going to get rid of you and your whaling, "at least for school time"). Children are excited, anxious, even terrified at the prospect of a whole new year- new teachers to know, new subjects and new expectations to wrestle with (yes, you're so stupid that you like the idea of work and challenges!). Some will be indifferent and envisage endless SMS tournaments on their mobile phones. Most of them are mourning the end of summer holidays, when there was more time for eating and playing, for laughter and silliness and sleeping to the max.
For thousands of children, school marks the start of that endless, boring to hell routine- up at seven, off to school 45 minutes later, home at two with homework, television, piano practice, television, some kind of evening class (religious, ballet or something), football training, television, supper, and another hour of blurred television screen before mum gets up and heaves them to bed at a reasonable hour. Next morning it's same thing, day in, day out until summer dawns again and thankfully it's the time when nothing much happens. Compared to summer holidays the other breaks are insignificant. The Christmas break is full of anxiety: too much money spent and family tensions rise to boiling temperatures. Easter may be a celebration of spring, but it's usually spent in swotting for the upcoming exams and too much chocolate eating. Summer, though is the season of sun, sea and sleeping to the max. It's blue sky, ice-creams, yellow sand and suntanned faces for three whole months.
But as all good things go, summer holidays get shorter. Year after year, parents start becoming pushy bores, and children find themselves in that awkward age marked by a new deep voice, hairy hands and limbs (not to mention the pubic area) and voila, they are suddenly ready to go to secondary school, going on 13 and already bored with life. One minute they are children, the next they are considering the mysteries of shaving and opposite sex and thinking that maybe they should have enjoyed their childhood more and not have started school at three and took the risk of being sucked into schooling too early. Maybe they shouldn't have taken a million ballet, piano, football and private lessons. Another bicycle ride would have been nice, while that first kiss should have been followed by a second and a third. And young Lucy would have made a nice girlfriend and Lara's special Sunday leftover shouldn't have gone unstolen. But then, it's not the children who decide what is best for them.
So off to secondary school the children go with a daily grunt. They wallow like treacle in bus stages, easily distinguishable in their colour-coded uniforms. The private school children speak poshly, and have neat hair matching expensive sports gear. They cringe and pucker up their faces at everyone including state secondary school students staring at them. They are all navigators of uncharted territory.
On leaving primary school, children are not just one year older, but embarking on a whole phase of life, which least to say is more depressing. Starting secondary school feels like the official opening to the small adolescent's games (knowing in your heart that you were never a good athlete).
Fascinating phenomena appear, like pimples and the discovery, in single sex groups and far from the madding teachers, of the mythical other sex. New friends (which years later you realise were no friends at all) are made and innovative disciplinary methods like after school hours tried and frequently tested. There are new subjects like history and languages. Boring ones like sports, for those like me who never saw the point of running unless you're being chased. Mysterious ones like geography, that ability to trace maps and a capacity to rote learn the names of such fixed and ambigous places as rivers, cities, deserts and oceans. Yes you might find it amazing as you are still too stupid to realise how worthless it is.
Secondary school years are for children like the seven years of worry (they do sometimes repeat). Some fret about whether they'll make the basketball team. Others feel the heavy breath of the nearing O level exams down their neck. "Homework", screams the teacher. "Home", orders mum, "straight after school and no lingering with your friends". "Work", disciplines dad, witholding promises of a new computer, which is only supposed to be used to help with the homework (the naughty boys and girls end up searching suicide websites...). "Help", children shout in the direction of guidance teachers and counsellors (this is done only to distract the teachers and parents and manage to get away with not doing the work, after all, real help is only found on good suicide websites). Secondary school is a time where bullies appear on the school yard horizon, like the Beano Bash Street Kids, promising violent fights and riots, dark revenge in obscure corners of the school ground, cruel and puerile, but let's face it, these are the only real exciting things about school. And while all this is taking place, 'friends' always seem to be running outside having a good time.
So you think that your schooldays are the best days of your life? Think again and you realise how depressing and suicidal they are. But come the end of summer and me and all the other students have to go back unfortunately, though I've passed my primary and secondary years thankfully.
Moral: If you survive and you're still alive years after school is finished don't ever organise or attend a school reunion! It'll completely break you down.
P.S. I have to say something on everyone's comments about this site changing. Yeah, this site has changed but it just has got better. My story of this site reflects the story of the site itself. First time I came in I just had a sight, put in a cruel, stupid joke and left, second time I did the same. Third time I realised that this site wasn't so stupid so I decided to write something a little more tasteful and I started messing around with poetry. I ended up in Mouchie's favourites and kept doing poetry for some time. Then I wrote some stupid shit, tried to forget about the site but came back fairly recently and anyone who reads my stuff knows what I write today. I have come to realise the potential of this site and today it means much more to me. This site helps you unlike the all the other sites that tell you that you should contact their counselors for help. That's all shit. Sometimes this site may look as some 'blind leading the blind', or rather 'suicidal leading suicidal' idea but you know? It works. The reflection in the site's story is here. In the beginning people used to come in, write stupid jokes and probably never come back, then things got better and people used to log on more than once and they were writing more serious stuff. Today anyone who logs in for the first time is hooked because the site is much more mature and entertaining. Occasionally you still find some bullshit. Even Mouchie's tastes have also changed. Leaf through the 'favourite' pages and you'll notice the difference between blasted suicide ideas (which I admit still make me laugh), and better, more mature stories and ideas building gradually through the years. Not that I will ever complain of Lucy's stories. And for all those crying their hearts out on Lucy, now that I know that she's not real I can do without any more Lucy stories because now they will sound stale. I am gonna get criticised for what I said but I suggest another thing, maybe Lucy or Phil or who the fuck it is may log on with a new name and give us other delightful stories. And for those crying on Felicia and Billy, they are with us and they have written only recently. So shut the fuck up (no offence to anyone! That's just my aggressive manner of speaking) and be proud that you make part of this excellent, or should we say classic site, as it is supposed to go down in history, which just gets better every day.
And Leanne if you are not fed up of my speech by now and still reading, thanks for naming me. At least I know that I'm not talking alone. I'm saying this as in my history here (which is getting quite long now) I remember only three times were there was a reference to me or my writing! Thank you, maybe somebody does care after all!
See you disgustingly at school, college, university or where the fuck you're going! Unfortunately I'm gonna be there...
|25 Sep 2003||RedAlice|| Let's try a little experiment. Turn and look at someone near you- a loved one, a friend, a co-worker, a stranger -- it doesn't really matter. Now, as you look at this person, consider this: he or she is a completely unique, never-before-in-the-history-of-the-universe-has-there-been-anyone-exactly-like-this-person... person. Reflect on the fact that you are gazing at an impossibly complex and totally original work of art which will never be duplicated. I'm sure you see where I'm going with this. We so easily lose sight of how truly magnificent we are. Which is something to keep in mind if you chose to look at a stranger for this exercise. Even though he's looking back at you with grinning, spittle-covered lips that are a miraculous construct of living tissue -- even though perverse thoughts of what he'd like to do to you are racing through a meat-based computer that no Pentium chip will ever approximate, he is a masterpiece. If he were hanging in a museum, a security guard would most likely tell you...
|24 Sep 2003||Phil||I got a lovely surprise today. After typing my personality Lucy Cortina's name into the search engine, I was led to a tranny porn site. Yes ideedy, the "Lucy's dad is a tranny" story had made it onto a website of tranny pictures and stories.
I should be proud... but I feel sick.
|23 Sep 2003||Chris||People just love intruding on each other's lives. They want to know what happened to the person living next door, they want to know that people have bigger problems than theirs so that they can feel better and they want to have others to gossip on. They also want to know that they aren't the only suicidal people. So you can imagine that my part of my secret diary (which I published two posts ago on 10th September 2003), 'which I write like a man with a hidden vice', was found interesting by lots of people. So I decided to publish another bit. I believe that this part happened soon after the pokies incident...
When I went out of the casino I found the railway station. Outside the railway station, I turned left and walked along the side of the dark road. Judging by the rural surroundings and the poppet heads of coal mines, I had reached far beyond the outskirts of the city but, always lacking a sense of direction, could not tell whether I was walking towards or away from it. What the hell? I didn't know where I was going; didn't care where I had come from. (Life is shit anywhere after all).
I began to signal passing vehicles, remembering what my friend Trevor used to say about big new cars never giving you a lift, only old cars or trucks. They all left me standing, old, new, big, small, trucks and cars alike, until self-disgust made its final statement: having utterly decided to kill myself beyond any possibility of changing my mind, I had stranded myself in a strange mining village without tablets or any other means of consummating the deed. The wind suction of a passing truck almost pulled me off my feet. I had always had a phobia about falling: looking down from a high balcony, an almost irresistible urge to jump or fall would grip me; the same urge to jump or fall under a moving train always led me to step well back when one entered a platform, even at the risk of missing a seat. Simple really; all I had to do was fall or jump under a passing vehicle; stand close so the urge would grip me. Or better still step right to the middle of the road and stand hypnotised by the headlamps like a kangaroo on a bush track.
A truck- judging by the height of and space between the bright lights- the lights growing larger, drawing me into their path. Pain? No, the falling body and the depressed soul obliterated on impact. 'Unknown man killed by truck'. I imagined the headline! An accident beyond all danger of being labelled suicide. But that kind of death could add no meaning to my life. The body still twirling slowly down from the death throes, head to one side, the mouth agape like a strangled bird, blood pouring from the nose and ears, turning the white shirt the colour of crashed raspberries: that is the kind of death. But I could never hang myself; and lynchings happened only in my dreams.
The screeching brakes; the lurching, plunging truck and I am lying by the roadside breathless but unhurt, scrambling to my feet, picking up the fallen brief-case, the truck coming back. "Could you give me a lift, mate?" I asked, affecting an air of unconcern. "A lift?" he shouted. "Listen, you just went close to getting a lift to eternity. You stepped... I overlapped him: "I tried to signal and got dazzled by the lights". He peered at me in an accusing tone and sked: "Where are you going?" I asked back: "Where are you going?". He named a place which I cannot remember the name of but he named a highway so I said: "The highway? That will do for me, if it wouldn't be too much trouble". He still seemed unconvinced but shrugged and said: "No trouble".
I scrambled into the truck beside him, having struggled to open the high door. In the reflected light of the cabin, he appeared to be a man with some Maori or perhaps Thursday Island blood: an ambivalent man, with a flat secretive face and sly ironic eyes. He wore dungarees, a singlet, a tattered wollen jacket and a raffishly angled cap.
"What, you running away from your mother or something?" he asked, looking in the rear vision mirror outside his door as we drove off. "Nothing like that. Had too much beer at a club and got on the wrong train." I managed a casual smile. "Where will you come out on the highway?". He again mentioned someplace and I told him: "Know it, that's where I'm going."
This coincidence seemed to quiet his suspicions but I wanted to divert the conversation away from my nocturnal journey. I picked up a book which had lain on the dash board, I could make out the title in the dim light: 'Live and Let Die'. "Do a bit of reading I see". "Not much: spend most of my time at the wheel or asleep: generally carry a book to read at roadside cafes." He braked suddenly as the driver in front signalled a right turn at a road junction but changed her mind and went straight on. "Women drivers!" he exclaimed and swung the huge semi-trailer right as if it were a sports car. The book still lay in my hands: 'Live and Let Die'.
It reminded me of a book I had borrowed about suicide, death and afterlife which had entered my house by stealth, like a lecher smuggled into a nunnery by a novice. The question was where to hide it because I didn't want my mother to find it and learn about my intentions. It was a paperback printed on cheap paper and I carried it by day forced into my hip-pocket, and slept with it under my pillow at night. At first I didn't even dare to read a page for fear of being discovered, like a child with a forbidden comic.
Then, one day in the secrecy of the toilet, I took it out with trembling hands. On the back cover was a photo of the author, with a high forhead, a near beard and a jovial expression. His twinkling eyes seemed to seek recognition for his wit and knowledge. They showed that for him the subject wasn't depressing but a relief. Someone tried to open the toilet door. I slammed my feet against it and said sorry. As I shot the bolt, the book dropped to the floor. The title printed in red letters seemed to glow like a neon light. Like a criminal destroying evidence in fear that the police will arrive, I tore the cover off and, later ripping it into small pieces, threw it into the toilet bowl and pulled the chain. Some pieces did not flush. I scooped up the soggy craps from the water and wrapped them in a handcherkief. Then, after a long wait, the plunge of the cistern sounded like a surging waterfall as it sucked the incriminating pieces down. But bit by bit, in the secrecy of the toilet I read it all and got more obsessed by suicide.
Back to the truck. The truck coasted on a straight stretch of road and the driver glanced sidelong at me. "I always pick up a hitch-hiker; know why?" he asked. "For the company?" "No, because I'm curious about strangers". He turned his head slyly, at the same time inquisitive and sceptical. "Take yourself: I'm driving along in the rain in the middle of nowhere when into my light beam jumps a well dressed bloke with an umbrella and brief-case who says he has got on the wrong train." "Truth is stranger than fiction." "Yeah, and he just happens to be going where I'm going." I began to see the truck driver as a challenge to my ability to hide my real thoughts and identity behind my conversation. I felt a curious elation like an actor ready to move in a difficult role. "That's how it is with life" I began. "If I were to put in a novel some things that have happened to me- people would think I was a nut."
He was distracted, however, by the demands of the road, which now began to wind through a mountainous rain forest, and he leaned over the wheel with concentraed skill. The lights picked up now high tension wires to the left; now the sheer cliff to the right; now a bridge beneath which a cascading stream tumbled over sandstone. The forest was tropically lush, a dark tangle of ferns and vines, palms and gum trees, seen through the swishing rain, like a jungle where wild animals might lurk and morbid fungus flourish.
My thoughts moved in spirals as if they were a memory circling, waiting to land. Was there a beginning- if God made the world, who made God?- could something infinite exist outside the finite material world? This old conundrum had been poised above my brain-box like a guillotine ever since I started embracing the truth in the books of science, art and mathematics. Later, I had formed the habit of posing this question in school classes and private conversation and always answering it in the negative. More recently, I had left it suspended in the air like a flying saucer, controversial and obtuse. And on thinking about the beginning I also thought about the end, and I wished that the truck would crash into a dark spot killing both me and the driver, to be found years later, forgotten by everyone. But the end naver came... and so I keep on living this fucked up, sorrowful life!
P.S. To anyone who called me a samaritan, first read all my posts. You might change your opinion! And those few, rare days when I try to be positive and help both me and you get on, don't spoil them.
See ya all in hell!
|19 Sep 2003||Felicia, The Full Monty||Malicious violence in this world is much too common. Angry people run amok and there is no way to stop them. I believe mouchette.org is for the common folk that want to find out the true meaning of life before ending it. Please, my dear people, ease on my friend "Lucy Cortina". "She's" the best that ever is and did save my life at one time. Folks, whether or not you believe that she is unreal, so be it. Her (or His) infectious humor has made the mouchette.org world laugh even if he or she tries not to be funny.
And "Lucy", no matter how tiring it is to be a true comedian, you are in fact a true original. (MAKE NOTE OF IT!) Don't change and keep those boob and Kylie Minogue jokes intact.
For Billy The Freak, my burly haired man, I want you to bring on the fun like you used to and make the world smile as always. I know who you are, and will keep it a secret between you and me, as far as my breasts are concerned (No kidding, the last time I looked, they were real!)
Anyways, Thanks Lucy for the "Boob implants!"
|18 Sep 2003||Phil||Steve, darling, don't talk pap. I found this site in the same way as yourself, but soon realised that, on closer inspection, the suicide kit was in fact a crazy, everything-allowed, um... story.
Look up "suicide kit" in your dictionary of choice, and hey presto, what do you find? Nothing! There is no definition to it.
I think that may be the whole point of it...?
|17 Sep 2003||Phil||Vive le faggots, lol :)
I'm glad there is still some sanity left in the suicide kit, and my dear friends are all still here.
If I die, wish me luck. If I don't, well, wish me luck too!
|17 Sep 2003||Felicia Helping You With Your Troubles||If "Life" Is a "Movie", "Be" the "Star"
There I was, sitting in a dark room contemplating suicide. I couldn't breathe right; neither did I have the power to eat because I felt that life was too overwhelming. Because I was afraid to enjoy life and its unfair existence, I felt that I was no longer a part of this world. On days, I watched the sun shine, the birds sing, groups of kids going to and fro school laughing together, people riding by on horseback, and lovers walking together hand in hand. Having been withdrawn from the world with its turmoils in my head like Anne Frank in the "Diary of Ann Frank", I failed to experience how wonderful life would be in the outside.
Then one day I just had to let go of my wallowing self-pity to get on with enjoying life. I didn't want to be the girl not trying out for the cheerleading squad and watching the girls auditioning in the sidelines. I tried my darnest to get involve in school play auditions and felt so afraid in not getting the lead role, but I was trying. Even if I had to be a Tree Stump or the back of a Donkey's ass I would consider it and later add some limerick in the script and be the life of the show, Success and failure are so entwined with life that in order to experience one, you will inevitable experience the other.
Today, instead of watching life like an audience at a movie playing the leading role, dive in and be the star. If you're too afraid of failure and keep contemplating suicide, you'll never allow yourself to succeed.
The best revenge in life is to succeed. Though I am not going to tell you to gloat either. Save it for the prudes that befuddle you with fruits and tomatoes, get a net or ball shooter and aim it right back at them.
For all you know you can conjure up some "Catsup" recipe and be famous.
|16 Sep 2003||Chris||It's mid-September and its been a long, hot, hot summer, and everyone seems to be complaining about how totally unconfortable and suicidal they are, including me. I came across this study the other day that served, for a short while at least, to put our discomfort into perspective. Read on...
The study had this idea. If we could shrink the earth's population to a village of precisely 100 people, with all the existing human ratios remaining the same, it would look something like the following.
There would be 57 Asians, 21 Europeans, 14 from the Western Hemisphere, both North and South, 8 Africans, 52 would be female, 48 would be male, 70 would be non-white, 30 would be white, 70 would be non-Christian, 30 would be Christian, 89 would be heterosexual, 11 would be homosexual, 6 people would possess 59% of the entire world's wealth and all 6 would be from the United States, 80 would live in substandard housing, 70 would be unable to read, 50 would suffer from malnutrition, 1 would be near death, 1 would be near birth, 1 (yes, only 1) would have a college education and 1 would own a computer.
When one considers our world from such a compressed perspective, the need for acceptance, understanding and education becomes glaringly apparent. The following is also something to ponder: If you woke up this morning with more health than illness, you are more blessed than the million people who will not survive the week. If you have never experienced the danger of battle, the loneliness of imprisonment, the agony of torture, or the pang of starvation... you are ahead of 500 million people in the world. If you can attend a chhurch meeting without fear of harassment, arrest or torture, or death, you are more blessed than three billion people in the world. If you have food in the refrigerator, clothes on your back, a roof overhead and a place to sleep, you are richer than 75% of the world. If you have money in the bank, in your wallet, and spare change in a dish someplace, you are among the top 8% of the world's wealthy. If your parents are still alive, and still married, you are very rare, even in the United States and Canada. If you can read this message you have a double blessing in that someone is thinking of you (me) and furthermore, you are more blessed than over two billion people in the world that cannot read at all.
Someone once said: "Whatever goes around comes around. Work like you don't need the money. Love like you've never been hurt. Dance like somebody's watching. Sing like nobody's listening. Live like it's Heaven on Earth." And to that I add "Fuck like there's no tomorrow!". Something good to make you feel good. For one moment put a smile on your face and stop thinking about suicide (There are far more people in a worse situation than you). I'm trying!
See ya, hopefully with a smile on your face...
|13 Sep 2003||RedAlice||SYMPARANECROMENIAN CATASTROPHES. VOL.68
i don't know about you, but my fundamental character flaws are so deeply embedded in my consciousness, it actually feels as if they're intertwined with the strands of my DNA. Lately i like to imagine that as a child i was a sort of brand new, meat-based computer that had an operating system installed with big, whopping design problems. The result is that when my scanning mechanisms bring in data from my environment, i invariably process that data in ways that do not reflect reality.
Example: i walk into a room that contains people. They are speaking amongst themselves and laughing. My immediate computational response is summed up by a voice in my head which says, "They're laughing at me. Why are they laughing at me? i hate them." Or: i see, hear or read about someone who has achieved great success in my field. My organic computer processes this info and spits out, "Danger! Danger! Survival is threatened!" Are these fundamental character flaws? You focking bet! Taken to an extreme this sort of thinking can cause a lot of suffering -- and not just to me. In my rare moments of mental and emotional clarity i've come to realize that this is an unavoidable part of who i am. The trick now is to overcome or at least soften my flaws before i'm sent back to the factory as damaged goods. Example: When i wrongly think i'm the center of the universe and my problems take precedence over the problems of others, i pause and say to myself, "Error. You are useless, ugly, spotty, unutterably stenchful and unworthy of being loved." At which point i say, "Why should i listen to you? A broken computer can't repair a broken computer." At which point i put myself into sleep mode before the whole system crashes.
Hang in there Phil.
Help is on the way...
|12 Sep 2003||RedAlice||i've been told that we're only as sick as our secrets. i like the sound of that. It would make a particularly good bumper sticker here in Hades. With that in mind I'd like to engage in a little ineffectual therapy and reveal one of my deepest, darkest secrets. There've been times when the mere thought of this secret has nearly overwhelmed me with self-loathing. And yet, there've been other times when i actually took a perverse pride in it. So what is this personal bit of esoterica? i've got your attention now, don't i? You probably even skipped ahead to see if this is really juicy. Well, skip no further. My secret is this: i'm not that smart. Yup, there it is, dug up and thrown into the sunlight. Since i was a little kid i've known that (like it or not) there were an awful lot of people who had a lot more on the ball than i did. Oh, believe me, i've tried to suppress this awareness. i've tried to convince myself that i was special, that i was gifted. But i eventually learned that this secret could be my greatest asset. i learned that with enough bright friends even a dim bulb can light up a room. i like the sound of that. With enough bright friends even a dim bulb can light up a room. Someone ought to print that on a bumper sticker and slap it on Air Force One.|
|11 Sep 2003||Lucy Cortina||Hi people! I'm back! Well, I'm gone.
Dear dear, the suicide kit has descended into chaos. Billy is back (my god! they actually released you from the psychiatric unit after your hands-up-Lucy's-knickers incident?)
Anyway. Here is me, a single person. I'm not part of the mass manufactured stories or fancy names that plague this site from jealous wannabes. I'm just me: bog-standard, big-breasted, Lucy Cortina. Or am I...?
Actually, I'm not. This confession may shock the whole of this world. More shocking than being bisexual or being a vegisexual (being plain old boring 'Gay' just isn't enough these days - no offence to you, Gay Punk).
So, who am I?
Hehe, this brings back memories. Those lazy days with Felicia in my living room, eating cornflakes, and me standing there holding a bottle of milk and saying "mooo", but Felicia still not knowing that I was being a cow.
Well, it may be a further shock to know that I have never even met Felicia. I'm not sure if she even exists. That is because, I, Lucy Cortina, do not exist myself.
Lucy Cortina, then what are you darling? The suspense is killing us! We are on the verge of swallowing our cocktails of paracetamol and Valium. Do hurry it up, darling.
And, another point worth inserting here, I really can't be arsed with trying very very very hard today to end up under Mouchette's favourites list. It once held appeal, when I was so bored and depressed and had nothing better to do. When I didn't have a life. I still don't have a life. But I will soon have death.
So, anyway, yes. It's me, Lucy. No fancy sub-names, just the regular depressed girl, not quite perfect, posting here on the spurr of the moment, without need for competing. But hang on! You aren't real Lucy!
That's right. I'm actually, what for it....
Ok, so I'm not Buddha. I'm a boy. I'm 17. I have known of this website for years, since 1999 at least. or is it 2000? I'm not sure. Anyway. I found this site on the first stages of my franctic search for the meaning of life. (Death, that is. Or for the technical wahlers, 'suicide').
I found this site, read the stoopid, yet intriguing, posts. Went away for a bit. Came back. Went away. Came back. Got an intense desperate urging lust to be in Mouchie's favourites list. Did it. Kept doing it. It got boring. When the "pretenders" popped up like all the little girly singers did when Britney Spears arrived, to steal Lucy's thunder (or even her breasts!), I decided that life was too short, and tried to get one (a life, that is).
I have Social Anxiety Disorder, and Depression, an eating disorder, and probably a whole list of other possible illnesses. I hate life. I have this past to deal with too. Everything's crap. My name is Phil.
Lucy Cortina is as fake as Britney Spears' whole music career. (Or her breasts).
Ok, maybe she isn't. Who knows. Maybe Lucy Cortina was my way of airing some of the crazy thoughts in this head of mine. Maybe she was the outlet for many things.
But, sorry people, I was never real.
My name is Phil. And I will soon be dead. No, I'm not just messing about like many people do. I have it planned to every detail. No one will stop me.
I just want to say, goodbye suicide kit. Goodbye Billy, Felicia, all the others. I don't know who you all are in real life, if you made up a persona like me, but thanks for the entertaining reads every day when I get into this room and switch on my PC, after another day of hell, another day of life. Another day of everyone talking about me, of people hating me (yes ok I admit it, I'm a teenager yapping on about my problems and will probably launch into a "poor me!" child abuse story here if someone doesn't stop me). So I will stop myself.
Umm, anyway, yeah. I will be dead soon. Lucy Cortina ends here. She had a nice and eventful life. I hope Mouchie keeps everything in small archived files in his cellar full of wine and cheese, so that one day the suicide kit will become a Hollywood production (you're aiming bit high there, Lucy!). I guess Lucy Cortina was the suicide kit slut. Sending pictures of naked ladies in underwear privately to Mouchette was the only reason I stayed Top Girl. Or was it? I'm not sure.
Anyhow, incase you are crying into your cocktails by now, or in the case of Billy, crying into your condoms, I love you all, and remember darlings, we are all going to somewhere better soon, that big breast factory in the sky. The purpose of this little community was only meant to be brief, as all here are suicidal (aren't we?). I never meant to live this long. Maybe it was you, Mouchette. Maybe it was someone else, in fact, I know it was- my Danny. But maybe I'm just an insane, gay, 17 year old teenager. Maybe Lucy Cortina was part of my mind personified. Yes, that will be it.
So, no breasts, no SSSS, no sister, none of all that nonsense. Still, it was fun, wasn't it?
Take care people. Good luck with your deaths. If you wanna contact me - not that you would - but I will be alive maybe a while yet (but Lucy ends here). Leave your email addresses, and I will email you.
RIP Lucy Cortina.
*Lucy leaves the room, leaving the occupants of the suicide kit free to release the farts or whatever else they were keeping in, in fear of upsetting Lucy during her important speech*
*Lucy enters room again, to an awful smell. She splutters out a few last words:
"Mouchette, I think you owe us all a small explanation. WHO, exactly, are you?"
...then leaves the room*
And everybody claps.
FINALLY, she has shut up whining, and gone!
|11 Sep 2003||Larius Mackellar||SYMPARANECROMENIAN FAVORITES. VOL.109
The nourishment of solitude is powerful and significant. Change is important to shake up complacency and again open your eyes. Someone once said to me that she "couldn't even SEE me" because i was too familiar and too often "there" in her daily life. When she started spending time away on a regular basis, she smiled at me one day and told me that being away had made her realize how much she sincerely appreciated my qualities as a person.
Do relationships become "stale" when you live with that person? Does a room become stale because it is so familiar to you that you don't even notice the beautiful paintings on the wall anymore? Has our world become stale???
Do what you have to do to shake it up and breathe.
|11 Sep 2003||Michael Mackellar||Meticulously Cultivated Ignorance|
|11 Sep 2003||Fionuellia||In 3 words, how would you define the collective content of Mr. Mackellar's mind???|
|11 Sep 2003||Michael Mackellar||It's very easy to put your faith in other people because you see something in them that is Beautiful. It is probably something you want that they seem to have and that you do not think you have yourself. it's very easy to make a big deal out of what you think is wrong with other people and barely notice the positive things that come from love, genuine caring, thoughtfulness. One day you begin to notice that no matter how you are judged by another person, it does not matter one bit. One moment they smile at you; the next moment they yell at you. One day you stop being a slave. One day you find your center and realize that it is strong because it does not know everything.|
|11 Sep 2003||nomeD cilegnA||the body is damp. moisture fogs the mirror. the string quartet surges and recedes in a circular progression. the lips caress in dimly lit space. the microphone is dangerous in the bath. D minor A minor for days. never have i been so perfectly misunderstood. not even by myself. my apologies, Mr. Punk, for your comprehensive shortcomings.|
|11 Sep 2003||billy the freak (the one and only)||guess who's back? back again. billy's back tell a friend. guess who's back? guess who's back? da da da... do da da do da da do...
you act like you never seen a freaky person before, jaws all on the floor, like billy and lucy just burst in the door and i started wooping her ass worse than before mouchette.org. throwing me under furniture
it's the return of the... no wait! he didn't just say what i think he did. did he? and mouchette said... nothing you idiot mouchette's dead, she's locked in my basement. ha ha ha!!!chicka chicka chicka internet women love biily the freak, "i'm sick of him. thinking you know what, typing for you know who. yeah, but he's so cute though." yeah i might got a couple of screws up in my head loose, but no worse than what you download in your computer rooms. sometimes i want to get on the net and cut loose, i can't, but it's okay for lucy to talk about her boobs. "my tits are on your lips! my tits are on your lips! and if you're lucky you might give them a little kiss."
and this is the message we send to suicidal kids and expect them to know what the answer to life is...
no really guys, i'm back for at least a post or two, i got a few things i'm working on for you.
|10 Sep 2003||Chris||Suicidal people have the habit of frequenting certain places. For example some might go to a bar and drink themselves to oblivion to forget their problems. Others may go to a suicidal friend to get the courage to commit the suicide themselves and others may go to the church to pray, forget and hope for the future. The list goes on. In the following piece I remember when I once went to the church, or was it somewhere else? When I am feeling suicidal things have the tendency of getting muddled up so try to figure out for yourself...
"I feel lucky." I said to my friend Trevor and hurried to where a fat faced friar dressed in a white coat sold indulgences in a glass wall confessional box. "Two dollars of twenty cents please." And he obliged with a flourish of hands like a priest giving a blessing, pouring the coins into my hand from a plastic holder.
At the wall I chose a statue to worship before: A machine with four rollers and playing card symbols: Ace, Joker, King, Queen (Hail Mary, Queen of Hearts), Jack, ten and nine. This was the most unforgiving machine; I always played it like a gambler with an unconscious desire for damnation. I gave myself up to prayer and actually got a pay of five coins from the first pull-- then I noticed that Trevor had followed me.
"Don't tell me you are falling for those things." Trevor said, swaying behind me. "Ah, yes, your girlfriend told me you played them here one Saturday night all through the concert happening here. Bloody idiot. When you buy anything you do so with a match-box for a deposit and play pokies, no wonder you're in financial trouble. You were always in financial bother, all your short, bloody life."
Poised with my right hand on the knob of the machine's arm and my left thumb on a coin in its slot, I glanced at Trevor over my shoulder and wondered how much he remembered about my past. And I acknowledged that he remembered everything as others remembered everything about other episodes in my life when my blemished self had betrayed my ideal self. Perhaps if I could ever have accepted that others remembered my moments of weakness I might not be here on this journey to the grave, I thought. And suddenly I realized that I could not sustain the idea of taking my own life simply to quiet the cry of self-disgust within me. To have meaning, my death must have some effect on those who increasingly saw me in terms of my weaknesses-- on Trevor, my girlfriend and the rest.
"Your girlfriend is a bitch but you forgave her in the past and you've forgiven her ever since because you've got no guts." Trevor said. I freed the coin and pulled the handle but neither the whirr of the rollers, the drone of Trevor's voice nor the clink of the two coins in the tray could drown the inner voice that cautioned: don't conjure up the repressed memories of the past. But the past was impinged as if on a screen above the machine like a distant town seen through a mirage and shimmering heat.
The past where my girlfriend betrayed me time and again, where my parents hated me, where I was put through extreme pressure at school (though I never managed to do extremely well), where I was abused physically and mentally by the teachers and the authorities in society that are supposed to help people in need and the whole past where I never had a bloody penny in my pocket. But my ideal self kept giving me this message: 'Fuck it, struggle, struggle despite all the corrupt people in the world. A better world is being hewn out by decent people.' And I tried to believe this message and therefore forgave, hoping for a better future and a better life.
"What can't you remember?" Trevor was saying, swaying but persistent like a lavatory door banging in a gale. "I remember everything." I replied, turning to focus his face and the garish room. "Listen, you've been pouring money into that machine and talking to yourself like a lunatic." "Don't tell me I've lost all my money!" I drew the wallet from inside my pocket and opened it. No, I put it under Trevor's nose. "Not to worry, mate, I've got this money set aside for a special, very important purpose, but I'll buy you a drink."
I bought two glasses of beer and we sat at a table aside. Something I had remembered when playing the poker machine- I could not now recall what it was- had led me to believe that my death must be some kind of transforming message from the dead to the living, to Trevor even. My ideal self accompanied me. His air of arrogant superiority confronted Trevor.
"Do you agree with my statement about the moral issues we have to face." I said, "about the need to confront the past?" The situation was so choicely ironic- like a fanatic from Women's Liberation advocating abortion to a nun- that I regretted I would not have the opportunity to tell all my friends about it because I was planning suicide, probably that night.
Trevor sat down, rolling back and forth in the chair until he got his balance, eyeing me malevolently. "Some people ought to talk about confronting the past. With your past, you shouldn't use that term. "How do you mean?" I said shocked. Trevor replied: "I've known you a long time. I was with you almost all your life. Sometimes, I can believe that you don't even remember your personal pasts." 'Don't let him divert you, my ideal self urged.' Of course I remembered my past but suddenly I was getting muddled up, mixing the past, present and the few hopes for the future, in this world or not. And suddenly my only problem was money. I asked Trevor to lend me but he told me that he wouldn't because I was spending them on pokies and because me and my girlfriend were the talk of the town, and he didn't want to mess up with me. So I said, no more pokies, no more drinks and no more life...
(Having transcribed this story, I sit holding the faded original in my diary- the Arafura sea scrolls, so to speak- and wondering why I wrote it and the other pieces about my past, secretly, like a man with a hidden vice. They were obviously written at different times over the years, perhaps as an excercise in self-analysis. Through them I might have sought to reconstruct myself and develop powers with which I could suppress my weaknesses. They also reveal a changing attitude towards myself, now self-deprecation, now self-heroising, and usually projecting an image of a tragic victim of circumstances. Through them, I sought to create a dialogue with myself about the private psychological life. In direct human relations I remained inacapable of revealing my inner life; I channeled my emotions into the world of ideas and politics that I believed in and lived them out there instead of with my family, girlfriend and friends. There is also a sense in which my secret writing symbolises my unconscious mind where I buried my repressed memories: most of my stories portray some agonized or shameful event which leaves a negative picture of me which I may never be able to revise because of their complexity).
So I rest my case. It is either suicide or a continuation of this fucked up, sorrowful life...
See ya all in hell!
|05 Sep 2003||Hanriq Guingois|| Do you ever feel like you're experiencing a powerful and terrifying shift in your fundamental consciousness? Do you ever have thoughts that horrify you? Oh, dear God, was that me who just thought that evil thought? Do you ever open your eyes in the morning and wonder if you're the same person who went to sleep the night before? Do you ever think, "Aw, screw it. Why do I even try? What's the point? Everything always goes to hell anyway." Do you ever wonder if the guy bringing you your soup hates your guts because he has to wait on you and pretend to be pleasant all the while knowing in his heart that he's a better man than you and his current servile status is final proof of an unjust universe? Do you ever think, "People are only nice to me because they want something?" Do you ever think, "I'm only being nice to this person because I want something?"
Well, the reason I bring all this up is to reassure you that I don't. Just thought you'd like to know... although I can't help but feel that you're not particularly happy for me.