|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?
|10 Mar 2003||nomeD cilegnA||THE GREATEST STRESS ~How, if some night or day a Demon were to crawl after you into your lowest loneliness and say to you, "This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything immeasurably small or great in your life must return to you... All in the same succession and sequence, even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The Eternal hourglass of existence is turned over and over, and you with it, a dust grain of dust." ...Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the Demon who spoke thus?? Or did you once experience a tremendous moment when you would have answered him, "You are a God, and never have i heard anything more Godly." If this thought were to gain possession of you, it would change you as you are, or perhaps crush you. The question in each and every thing, "Do you want this once more and innumerable times more?" would weigh upon your actions as the greatest stress. Or how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to Life... to crave nothing more fervently than this ultimate eternal confirmation and seal????
|10 Mar 2003||Lucy Cortina||In not-so-secret code to agent Danny:
have saved the world again.
I am pleased to report that a vicar has been discovered tied to a lampost wearing only boxer shorts. This was during a dawn raid in an attempt to infiltrate the higly secret naked-vicar-cult-UK. This is a cult of practising vicars and similar holy men, who join hands once a month at undisclosed locations in the UK to dance naked around a camp fire at midnight.
We have yet to find them... but don't worry, agent Lucy will infiltrate the.. er "ring".
I fancy a bit of naked dancing...
Lucy Cortina, agent oo oh oh! of Super Secret Spy Sex (SSSS)
|09 Mar 2003||Felicia||Apologies to Lucy Cortina:
I started looking at my small specks. The jealousy of trying to compete with Lucy was utterly sad. Now she is mad at me. I always felt like the Jan Brady and she was the Marsha. "Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!" I screamed out in my head, but it was useless. To find solace, I had to seek the box of water-bras that Lucy gave me for Christmas. In the card, it read "with caring thoughts, Lucy". A tear streak fell out of the corner of my eye because I discovered jealousy can bring such an ugly face. I couldn't help that night when Lucy went out with a Knight, at the Royal French Palace in Paris. Lucy was stunningly beautiful with the crowd and showed such grace and poise. Then a Knight by the name of McKellar, took her sequined satin, precious diamond studded, gloved hand on to the dance floor. There I stood, amoungst the crowd as everybody gazed at the handsome couple. There was Billy staring at the handsome pair with his ear to ear grin. I tugged at Billy's coat tail but he failed to recognize me. I said, "Billy...Billy...Billy!" as crowds roared and cheered to the sway of the music. Still, he never heard me. Disgruntled, I took off, far from site to the back of the Palace and gazed at the moon from the balcony. The beautiful music played into the night. Then I started to cry like I never did before. It seemed I lost a sister and a friend, because of a joke I wrote in the post editorial one day. It suddenly was published and Lucy read it. Her shock was more than shock, so she shook with horror when I came to visit for tea at the Palace one morning. She yelled at me and said, "Felicia! Young lady, do you work for a tabloid?" I said, "No." "Well, then don't write anything about anybody if it isn't nice to say!" I said, "I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!" To be told that I was like a reporter or the paparazzi was bad enough. I felt like the telemarketer of the media. I ran from the Palace to cool off and gather some thoughts. A few days later, I wheel barreled a crate filled with petals and daisies. I lay them on the ground in front of the palace so Lucy and her Knight and shining armor can see that I placed them in caring words a mile long. It read, "I'm sorry Lucy Cortina for the miserable things I've said and please forgive me." I am standing by the castle right now. But neither Lucy or her Knight read it because they have been busy for a long time. It's taking days.
The clock keeps ticking. The story continues.
|09 Mar 2003||Danny Keaton||Infostream inc. has been watching this board for some time and has finally got some answers to the death of our Directer, Fred E. Catt, or ol' Fred as he was known to friends. He was indeed killed in hospital, his oxygen hose cut off. With the information given by you, we now know it was indeed Spencer C. Bad, the priest, that had killed him. Lucy Cortina, our inside agent has tracked the movements of Spencer and has found that it is none other than... Jeanie. The guilt had built up so much in Jeanie that she HAD to tell someone, thinking she could pass off her wicked act as humor, so no one would notice. Thanks to Lucy here, Jeanie can finally be stopped, before she kills off more of the infostream staff.
Yours truely, Daniel Keaton of SSSS.
|08 Mar 2003||Auron Mackellar||SYMPARANECROMENIAN FAVORITES. VOL. 81 ~SCHONE KUNSTE~
...Suppose there were 2 artists, and one said, "i have journeyed much and seen plenty in this world, but i have sought in vain to find a man worth painting. I have found no face with such perfection of Beauty that i could make up my mind to paint it. In every face i have caught one or another little fault. Therefore i seek in vain." ...Would this indicate that this artist was a great artist? On the other hand, the second one said, "Well, i do not pretend to be an actual artist; neither have i journeyed to foreign lands. But remaining in the little circle of women who are closest to me, i have not found a face so insignificant or so leaden with flaws that i still could not discern in it a more Beautiful side and discover something glorious. Therefore i am happy in the art i practice. It satisfies me without my making any claim to Being an artist." ...Would this not indicate that precisely this one was the artist, one who bringing a certain something with her found then and there what the much travelled artist did not find anywhere in this world, perhaps because he did not bring that certain something with him!
Consequently, the second of the 2 was the artist.
~Would it not be sad, too, if what is intended to Beautify life could only be a curse upon it, so that Art, instead of making life Beautiful for us, only fastidiously discovers that not one of us is Beautiful. Would it not be sadder still, and still more confusing, if Love also should only be a curse because its demand could only make it evident that none of us is worth Loving, instead of Love's being recognized precisely by its loving enough to be able to find some lovableness within all of us, consequently Loving enough to be readily able to Love us all...?
|08 Mar 2003||Erosaviaus Mackellar||EVERYTHING AND NOTHING~
There was no one in him: behind his face(which even through the bad paintings of those times resembles no other)and his words, which were copious, fantastic and stormy, there was only a bit of coldness, a dream dreamt by no one. At first he thought that all people were like him, but the astonishment of a friend to whom he had begun to speak of this emptiness showed him his error and made him feel always that an individual should not differ in outward appearance. Once he thought that in books he would find a cure for his ill and thus he learned the small Latin and less Greek a contemporary would speak of; later he considered that what he sought might well be found in an element rite of humanity, and let himself be initiated by Lucy Cortina one Beautiful June afternoon. Instinctively he had already become proficient in the art of simulating that he was someone, so that others would not discover his true identity as no one; in London he found the profession to which he was predestined, that of the actor, who on a stage plays at being another before a gathering who play at taking him for that other person. His histrionic tasks brought him a singular satisfaction, perhaps the first he had ever known; but once the last verse had been acclaimed and the last dead man withdrawn from the stage, the hated flavor of unreality returned for him. He ceased to be Ferrex or Tamerlane and became no one again. Thus hounded, he took to imagining other heroes and other tragic fables. And so, while his flesh fulfilled its destiny as flesh in the pubs and brothels of London, the Soul that inhabited him was Caesar, who disregards the augur's admonition, and Juliet, who abhors the lark, and Mackellar, who converses upon the plain with witches who are also Fates. No one has ever been so many men as this man, who like the Egyptian Proteus could exhaust all the guises of reality. At times he would leave a confession hidden away in some corner of his work, certain it would not be deciphered; Richard affirms that in his person he plays the part of many and Iago claims with curious words "i am not what i am." The fundamental identity of existing, dreaming and acting inspired famous passages of his. For twenty years he persisted in that controlled hallucination, but one mourning he was suddenly gripped by the tedium and terror of being so many kings who die by the sword and so many suffering Lovers who converge, diverge and melodiously expire. That day he arranged to sell his theatre. Within a week he had returned to his native village, where he recovered the trees and rivers of his childhood and did not relate them to the others his muse had celebrated, illustrious with mythological allusions and Latin terms. He had to be someone; he was a retired impresario who had made his fortune and had concerned himself with loans, lawsuits and petty usury. It was in this character that he dictated the arid will and testament known to us, from which he deliberately excluded all traces of pathos or literature. His friends from London would visit his retreat and for them he would take up his role as Poet. History adds that before or after dying he found himself in the presence of God and told Her: "i who have been so many men in vain want to be one and myself." The voice of the Lord answered from a whirlwind: "Neither am I anyone; I have dreamt the World as you dreamt your work, my buried child, and among the forms in my dream are you, who like myself are many and no one."
|07 Mar 2003||Lucy Cortina||Breastfully truthfull. Did you expect less? I'm not Britney...|
|07 Mar 2003||Michael Mackellar|| ...And so it should be, Lucy.
Let us seek Peace. Let us become effectively gentle and thoughtfully caring towards one another. Lucy Cortina... Such a Beautiful name!! And how blessfully truthful it seems for you.
|06 Mar 2003||Lucy Cortina||When I first came to this site I was jut a suicidal freak called Lucy, with larger-than-average 'bloomers'. I used writings from a book I was reading at the time to get my, er, 'talents' noticed. Which ain't easy when you're among suicidal people!
In musical terms I did a "cover-version" which presented my vocal (and breastial) skills to the world.
Since then I've (they've) literally been 'thrust' (*ooh!*) into the limelight, which is where I've (they've) remained.
Like Madonna, a bit of re-invention (and a few new bras!) was necessary. If no-one bought my records (or prodded my tits), and I didn't remain in the Top 10 (Mouchie's "favourites" list) then I would have floated away like a fart in space.
So, just like we're stuck with the likes of awful Aguilera, Britney Spears, etc. in this world, you are stuck with me, until I start turning to pills and booze to escape my showbiz life.
Now, if we can't resolve this conflict Michael - and I extend my bosom in the name of Peace - then let's start throwing our dollies at each other.
I have a new stock of bras just ready for action...
"We come in peace".
|05 Mar 2003||Lucy Cortina||Know the feeling Michael. It's like The Osbourne's. Sure, Ozzy is ok. But then comes Jack. And the dreaded daughter Kelly to murder a Madonna track.
Keep the family away! This site is not for children!
|05 Mar 2003||Michael Mackellar||In case any one is wondering... i caved-in last week. It was in consequence of reading far too many back catalogue postings by some wanker named Lucy Focking Cortina.
Needless to say, i have never been more offended by myself.
"The Higher Madness" awaits...
What ever happened to Sad King Billy?????????
|05 Mar 2003||Lucy Cortina||Felicia, I used to have the utmost respect for you until you started "dissing" and making a mockery out of my lushibuous breasts.
And they have feelings too!!!! They're a bit upset by all the press attention they have been getting recently. Forget about Justin Timberlake "grabbing Kylie Minogue's ass" being all over the news. Now it's just my tits. Reporters have such filthy minds! Shows how shallow the world is. I can't base my career on my chest, I have other qualities too! (Besides, it would fall off my chest). For example my eye lashes. They are so delicate, like silk.
|03 Mar 2003||Felicia||How To Give Water To A Dead Horse
Number one the horse is dead; so you flip him over with mouth open face forward towards the boat, positioned belly up. Then you tie a few ropes, loop the rope to a pulley, and rev your engine to sail using Lucy Cortinas 40 DD bra. The water will surely go into the dead horse. Though you try to make sense of the whole thing, youve accomplished your goal. Never think that anything is impossible, because impossible is but a word. But never kill yourself for the sake of having to end a miserable life, because you never know whats on the other side it could be your Mother-in-law or someone you really cant stand.
End of story.
|21 Feb 2003||Lucy Cortina||*OO-ER*, I suspect a little too much of the old Smirnoff Ice may have passed your lips Michael.
I am only an inoccent gal floating in the corner of the room with delicate satin to spare my blushes.
We come in peace!
|21 Feb 2003||nomeD cilegnA||~Since my earliest childhood a barb of sorrow has been lodged within my heart. As long as it stays put i am ironic... if it is pulled out i shall die. ~Soren|
|20 Feb 2003||Lucy Cortina||Yes Michael, Solaris has been spotted, sandwiched in between my baps. Leave the poor mite be, he's safe and warm, with milk on tap if he needs it.|
|19 Feb 2003||Lucy Cortina||Things get weirder in my life. And in life in general.
After sucking on too many yellow lollies, my lips got stuck together and I ended up with a "trout pout". So as you can imagine I look like a fish. Or a mermaid. A mermaid with 2 inflated dinghies on top of her.
So here I am, floating along in the ocean of life, waiting for a big steamer full of sailor boys to pick me up.
Shit! I just forgot about the WAR. I remember seeing signs saying "Don't Attack Iraq!" this morning when I went to buy my newspaper + condoms.
I could be killed by some huge navy vessel!!! So I need another type of 'vessel' to save me...
"BILLY!!! GET YOUR COCK HERE THIS INSTANT!!!!"
|18 Feb 2003||Michael Mackellar||...back where the dogs bark/where still-life bleeds the concrete white/try not to go too far inside/your mind//back where the cars collide/where the lame star limps an endless mile/you can only go so far/for Womankind//if you were the one... would i even notice now that my mind has gone/if you were the one... would i even notice? back where the past is parked/where the canine in the A-line stole your time/have i gone too far inside/my mind?
~Bernard Butler+Brett Anderson
Has anyone out here seen Solaris??????
|15 Feb 2003||Lucy Cortina||Boob update: expansion of the fittest. Swelling phenomenal. I'm becoming one of those black African women that you see on these TV adverts that say "Please donate £1/month for some starving baby you have never and will never meet". You know, the ones with well droopy titties. I would give just £1 a month to those poor people so that the lady-folk could buy a bra between them. Anything to stop this horror on my TV screen!
Which is why I'm urging the lovely suicidal community of mouchette.org to donate me £1 a month so that I can purchase a stronger bra (I already used all the shopping bags, bin liners (not Bin Laden!), bed sheets and sellotape trying to keep my knockers under containment. They all broke).
So, that's £1 a month, and 2 bottles of lip gloss and 10 packs of self-heating face masks a month, please! And any other donations are welcome (even sperm if you so wish. I will have your babies for you, so long as it pays!)
I await your generosity in the name of breastexplosionity.
|12 Feb 2003||Kim Mackellar||Don't come to me_it's difficult for me to talk with you_i cannot Love you_and it's not within me to give_that breath of Truth_Don't come to me The years have closed tight shut_in the abyss of terrible distances_the flamelets of desire have died_you have become a memory deceived_you are somewhere near_the years have closed tight shut Don't come to me_i shall not return to that crystal world_you are the distant echo of a song_you were for Us but became_that which one loses without finding_Don't come to me [unknown mental patient]|