|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?
|18 Jan 2003||Lucy Cortina||Life at my inpatient unit is SUCH a blast. It's more like a youth hostel rather than a psychiatric unit.
Spying on a vegie-lezbo "doing her bits" in the bathroom alone excites me to an almost orgasmic state.
It may be unhealthy for a teenage, deeply curved, busty girl to develop obsessions with nurses, but hey-ho! I'm Lucy, I do as I please!
One of the nurses has a "third tit" - a yukky mole on her face. She's such a sad old bag. I tried to take a pic of the third tit as evidence, but couldnt bear the thought of being exposed to a bra-less tit on a face as cratered as Mars.
Anyway, from tits to 'down belows' - the only UK Tampax factory is closing down! (makers of English tampons). I was on the phone for over 2 hours today, waiting to complain. It was an automated phone service.
"To speak to an operator who is very nice, but no help at all, press 1.
To be cut off for no apparant reason, press 2.
To speak to an over-enthusiastic office girl, press 3..."
and so on, and so on. When I finally got through to complain, a voice - eerily similar to Christina Aguilera's - said in a sweet tone: "I'm sorry, we no longer produce tampons. Good day to you".
So I'm here all alone and tampon-less. Thanks to Christina Aguilera. She insists that people get "Dirrty".
Bang goes my chances with Billy...
|17 Jan 2003||Larius Mackellar||SYMPARANECROMENIAN CATASTROPHES. VOL.1 What is a poet? An unhappy soul who in her heart harbors a deep anguish, but whose lips are so fashioned that the moans and cries which pass over them are transformed into ravishing music. Her fate is like that of the unfortunate victims whom the tyrant Phalaris imprisoned in a brazen bull, and slowly tortured over a steady fire; their cries could not reach the tyrant's ears so as to strike terror into his heart; when they reached his ears they sounded like sweet music. And the masses crowd about the poet and say to her, "Sing for us soon again" -which is as much to say, "May new sufferings torment your soul, but may your lips be fashioned as before; for the cries would only distress us, but the music... the music is delightful." And the critics lurch forward to say, "That is perfectly done-just as it should be, according to the rules of aesthetics."
Now it is understood that a critic matches a poet to a hair; he only lacks the anguish in his heart and the music upon his lips. I tell you, i would rather be a swineherd, understood by the swine, than a poet misunderstood by the masses. ~Soren
|17 Jan 2003||John Coulter||For how much longer must i howl into this wind? For how much longer must i cry like this? A thousand wasted hours a day...just to feel my heart for a second. A thousand hours just thrown away...just to watch this shell decay. ~Bob Smithers|
|16 Jan 2003||Felicia||Est-ce que vous m' ecrirez, Mademoiselle Lucy Cortina? Je parle un peu le francais. Comprenez-vous? S'il vous plait comprends, Je suis American. Comment dit-on "fake boobs" en francais? Je ne peux rien manger de cuisine au pickled durs l'oeuf.|
|15 Jan 2003||Anton Anomalovich||SYMPARANECROMENIAN FAVORITES. VOL.?? It happened that a fire broke out backstage in a theatre. The Clown came out to inform the public. They thought it was just another jest and applauded. He repeated his warning, they shouted even louder. So i think the world will come to an end amid general applause from all the wits... who have been led to believe that it is just another joke. ~Soren|
|15 Jan 2003||nosaM legnA||SAIGNER... PLEURER... RESISTER... VERSER. I am counted among Them, that go down below the pit. I have Become... like a man without longing, free among these dead. They lay me in dampness, within the lowest loneliness... and beside the shadow of onDem. I laugh as my head turns to rust, as the sky... and the Impossible explode. Held for one moment i remember a dream... an impression of Loss... and then everything in gone. Forever.|
|14 Jan 2003||Felicia||There I was sitting amongst a gang of angry mimes doing sign language in French. They were arguing on who ever misplaced their black and white make-up. Poor me, sitting in the back by the break room feeling over worked and underpaid. Break was over and I went to the nearest merchandising booth to sell magic potions, t-shirts, and voo doo paraphernalia. There was Lucy standing in the middle of the pebbled street in sarong garb dancing to the tune of "The Girl From Ipanema". There she was just shaking her wonderful tasseled casabas to the incoming crowd. She began to attract the hairy furry hobbits, enchanting them with her two wondrous gifts. Then in came Elijah Frodo Baggins with his mysterious blue eyes. For an instant, I feel deeply in love with him. Until I turned to look and my backpack full of juicy apples and bread were gone. I scorned and murmured, Why that dirty rotten scoundrel! But I found it was not he and that my burlap backpack had a gaping hole in the bottom. I followed the tracks of the crumbs from my missing food back to the break room in the tent. I opened the curtain and found the mimes were quietly chewing on my bread and savoring the apples to their delight. Maybe they were hungry and it appeared that they were not doing angry sign language in French anymore. Then I got really hungry.|
|14 Jan 2003||Michael Mackellar||Yes, well i've been thinking about swapping my wagon in for a new Honda S2000. Has anyone ever driven such a car? i almost took a silver one for a test-drive yesterday, but the fact that i could hardly afford to buy enough monopoly money from the local KB toy store to pay for it, even after the focking trade-in, sort of made the whole scene reek with ridiculousness. "Une femme est plus belle que le monde ou je vis... et je ferme les yeux." ~Eluard.
Becca? We met at our crossroads. Remember? ... i lost your Time in a corner of that darkening sky. Forgive me. i've been thinking of you at a rate which approximates perpetuality... Please write. Your words can still stave-off the inevitable.
What an interesting poem i've been working on lately... involving a young, slightly sociopathic girl who somehow manages to extinguish the Sun. The overture based loosely upon her Afterlife is a soul-curdling page turner. Odd. Another one revolving around a man who suddenly realises that his depression is entirely due to the fact that he has the most absurd dysfunction. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot convince himself to fall asleep without first finding a time and a place for it.
Narcolepsy, in this day and age, is probably a sure sign of Saintlihood.
|14 Jan 2003||Michael Mackellar||SYMPARANECRONENIAN FAVORITES. VOL. 20 How much the same human nature is! With what innate genius a little child can often show us a vivid picture of the larger scale. i was really amused today by little Frodo. He sat in his tiny chair and looked about with visible delight. Then the nursemaid, Maren, walked through the room. "Maren!" he shouted. "Yes, little Frodo," she answered with her customary friendliness and came over to him. He tilted his big head to one side a bit, fastened his enormous eyes upon her with a certain roguishness and then said quite phlegmatically, "Not this Maren; it was another Maren." What do we adults do? We shout out to the whole world, and when it approaches us in a friendly manner we say, "It was not this Maren." ~Soren|
|11 Jan 2003||frodo Lucy Cortina's new boyfriend||there's no easy way to say this michael but PISS THE HELL OFF WITH UR CRAP!!!!|
|11 Jan 2003||Michael Mackellar||SONA Ag breacadh an lae do chumar ag suil/ aoibhneas an tsaiol amach romhainn/ clocha draiochta chomh geal lenar suile/ casan ag glioscarnach duinn// Suaimhneas na coillte is ceol inar gcroithe/ macalla fuaim an tsruthain/ duilloega fomhar mar ghuth ar an ngaoth/ se nadur is cuis lenar ngra// Anois ta realta a'rince sa speir/ is an saol ina gholadh go samh/ aislingi aille i ngairdin mo run/ briongloidi thart orainn ar snamh// Suile sior lasta le solas... suile faoi gheasa na run... taibhreamh ar sheoda an ghairdin... iontais nach sceithfear go buan// A'taisteal sa choill seo ar fan is ar fuaidreamh/ realta geala eolais ag lonradh don ri/ A'taisteal sa choill seo ar fan is ar fuaidreamh/ clocha bana ag lasadh ar sli Mick O'Brien|
|10 Jan 2003||nosaM legnA||SYMPARANECROMENIAN FAVORITES. VOL.21 The talk that suicide is cowardice is for most people nothing but a leap under a stage. Those shrewd and proud commoners who have never known that it requires courage!! Only those who have had the courage to commit suicide... can say that it was cowardly to have done it.|
|10 Jan 2003||Ichabod Mackellar||SYMPARANECROMENIAN FAVORITES. VOL.242 Most people rush after pleasure so fast that they rush right past it. They are like that dwarf who guarded a kidnapped princess in his castle. One day he took a noon nap. When he woke up an hour later, she was gone. Hastily, he pulls on his seven-league boots; with one step he is far past her. ~Soren|
|03 Jan 2003||Lucy Cortina||I've done the broncho thing, Felicia. It played haddok... or rather havoc with my tights, and gave them ladders. Being sexy - as I have stated many times - is a tough job. It is not for the faint hearted.
I know a woman at my impatient-unit who hurt her back from too much sexual activity. Oh yeah, she's a vegetarian lesbian too. She said the other day to everyone:
"I'm just off to do my bits..."
We gasped in horror as to the implications of that statement. And I almost died in horror on the discovery of her laying on the floor outside the doctor's office "doing her bits" (exercises for her bad back). Ughh! She also has thighs like blocks of concrete from all the bike riding she does.
Anyway, as to PANS, Felicia, I only ever use a pan for one thing.
(and the occasional egg - although I am not too qualified in that profession, you understand - so don't get any ideas).
|02 Jan 2003||Felicia||Lucy, I'm surprised you left so early to catch the Pan Am 3:13 pm flight to LAX airport from San Francisco and took the Pan Am first class at 9:00p.m. to New York and an adjacent flight to London, a day before Christmas Eve. Hope the jet lag isn't ruining your beauty sleep. A check for $161.07 USD? You can send it in attention to Mr. Frank Abagnale J.R's trust fund. If you can catch him if you can. Besides, you should save it for an affair to remember in Paris or for those Agent Provocateur lingerie modeling assignment photoshoots. Be sure to do a side shot like Kylie Minogue on a bucking, mechanical bronco. Just don't let the Margaret Thatcher look-alike intimidate you because of your nice swinging nuggas. Before you reach for the box of diet sugar-free bonbons tonight dear, Happy New Years for 2003. Please don't feed any chocolates to George. You may need a lead and pulley to deter his addiction to Toblerone chocolates. Steer him far away ...far, far away from the Belgian chocolates. You know George cannot eat "just one".|
|31 Dec 2002||Lucy Cortina||I'll be there, shaking my bonbons, Felicia. Actually I will be in Leicester Square (in our beloved capital London) drenched in champagne and draped over a ford cortina. Yeah, they had the decency to name a car after me! I think the advert reads "The drive of your life - guaranteed to leave the competition lingering on the hard shoulder of the A1!"
Although, Felicia my darling, I do hope you are on no hard shoulders - you deserve a lot better. I gave you that bra in an understanding that it would bag you the best of the blessed (I'm not talking about vicars, you dirty people!)
But Felicia, my darling, I urge you to invest in some Bold Ultra (that's washing powder to Americans) and get out those chip-fat stains. It may be useful if you've bust a tyre, and park up in a greasy spoon cafe. But when you're invited to one of my dinner parties with my husband George W. Cortina, it will mean zilch. It's time to get out the old cheque book again...
say, I forget the bra toll in America these days... would £100 cover it?
|31 Dec 2002||Felicia||We were at Union Square in San Francisco, Lucy Cortina and I. She saw my downtrodden face as I gazed upon my small bosoms. She was truly blessed. We went into Victoria's Secret and saw laying upon a shelf...Low and behold...a box of fake rubber boobies (fakies shall we say?) They were displayed in two colors: porcelain shade and tan. I took the tan beauties out of the box, slowly, like...like, they were "My precious". I felt the texture of the fakies and had wishful thoughts of wearing them, forever. The rubber was so pliable and there among the tips of each one was a fake nipple. I told Lucy that I would be in the fitting room trying them on. In the fitting room under the incandescent lighting, I slipped each fake boobie under an underwire bra. They stuck out all right, like a twenty-one gun salute. Then, I shook them and became ecstatic because they looked so real. So I decided I'll take it. At the register, I took out my wallet to pay for the fakies and black underwire bra, but to my horrific horror, a piece of hair lint and a moth came out of my wallet. The cashier was very impatient and looked unimpressed. Out of pure embarrassment I said, "Omigawd!!" and hollered "I forgot the eighty dollars that Billy left on my dresser!! Augh!!" Well, I remembered that one day, Billy took in an old friend that was down in his luck to my apartment. The next thing you know, the old man was gone, well anyways, Lucy felt really bad for me, so she purchased the fakies and the black underwire bra. I said, "No Lucy! You shouldn't have!" She stared at me as if I were crazy, so I gave her a big hug. To this day I am still wearing my fakies and the black underwire bra. They are the best Christmas presents I ever had! Thank you dear Lucy, my Angel of Mercy! Should I wear them tonight for the Exotic Erotic Ball at San Francisco? Am I going to meet the Prince of my dreams?
Where are you?!!
|30 Dec 2002||Lucy Cortina||I wouldn't allow anyone aboard my boobies, Felicia, they are protected by the Wildlife Trust.
That and a super strong metallic bra.
Suddenly Austin Powers comes to mind -"You have the right to remain sexy".
Which indeed I do. And that could not happen with things dangling from the end of my bosoms.
But feel free to scale the heights of Billy's tower. There may be a Rapunzel at the very top of it.
|29 Dec 2002||Felicia||The ocean recedes, the motley of people stare... oh... the horror! High on a hill top, I flail like helpless bird with a broken wing and seeing the waves come crashing in. The valleys get filled with water. Wait. The mountain tops are soft. Oh my gosh! I am standing on Lucy Cortina's right boobie! (Suddenly silent) I see ole' one eyed Billy, grasping on the left mountain top for dear life. Then... I hear a loud voice, like thunder. "GET OFF!" The voice roared and the right mountain top hit me, like a large loaf of San Francisco Parmesan Bread. Rendered unconscious, I float to the bottom of the ocean. Out of nowhere, as if the fish were getting seanced, radar ripples become apparent in the water. It's... it's Aqua Man! He comes to rescue me. Holding me close and arms surrounding my 38C sized boobies, Aqua Man brings me to the ocean surface and lays me against a rock. Then he gives me the kiss of life, just like the girl in Dr. No's dream, except he is a guy. I awoke and found later that I was in love with a fish and laying on a rock out of nowhere.|
|29 Dec 2002||Lucy Cortina||Bloody Hell. Mouchette you must be drunk out of your mind on Schnapps to allow the peasants to re-enter our Boudoire of Sauciness. Who the hell needs bloomin' poetry? It's just a poor man's rap. Anyone could do it - here, let me try:
"I waddled to the loo.
And then I had a poop.
I sprayed my little can,
now the air don't smell like a man (ie - v. stinky)"
There. Look out Eminem, Lucy Cortina, nu Raunchy-Rap-Queen is gonna beat you to pulp.
I should be so lucky. I've eaten too many mince pies this Christmas, which means my waist-line has increased, which in turn means that my breasts have inflated slightly. I look like Pamela Anderson in space. Still, a full figure isn't always a bad thing. Now there's even more of me to love. As if you didn't already have enough.
Some religious nutters have created the first cloned baby recently, apparently. I would gladly donate half of my breasts to them so they could sculpt a head and a few arms and legs from them (they are very firm, you know). All they need is a propper human brain to go with them. Hey, didn't they keep Albert Einstein's brain pickled in a jar after he died? - they could use that! Although, perhaps the scientists in charge ate it with some chips and a pickled egg.
What is the world coming to?