Suicide Is A Ticking Monster

I have people in my corner that love me.

Folks and friends that expressed this love to me whether it was with their uproarious laughter attached to our conversation like a festive ribbon , or that rare but essential confession of “I’m glad I’m here with you to experience this.”

I still want to drown myself in a lake.

I’m given an opportunity or chance after days, months, years of fighting for one. It’s a mark of hard work finally producing ripe fruit.

I want to shoot myself in the head with a shotgun.

I have a day of difficulties, a litany of inconveniences that could range from a flat tire, ripped pants at work, to a headache from not eating all day due to the business of work.

I want to take a hot shower, eat a quart of Homemade Vanilla, and lie in bed.

I also want to raid the medicine cabinet, consume everything it has and never wake up again.

Depression and Suicidal Thoughts have traveled with me since I was 12. Naturally, I thought of them extra appendages of puberty much like voice cracks and growth spurts that would shed as adulthood took over.

My voice and height stabilized. My mental health, not so much.

To this day, well into my early 30’s depression and suicide are still a major part of me that I’m convinced will never quite go away. Maybe it’s not supposed to for some people. Maybe it’s just something we “chosen” are meant to deal with either figuring out a way always keep those thoughts sealed or at bay like some inner demon we can control.

Or we become like Anthony Bourdain.

Or Kate Spade.

Or Chester Bennington and Chris Cornell.

Your Father.

Your Sister.

Your Best Friend.

Or any other pained soul who could not beat the living monster whose heart beat inside of us wishes to stop the beat of our own.

Obviously, I never knew the celebrities we lost to suicide.

But every time, my Google News Feed shared a story on them, or some analysis, the same scenario would happen.

I’d wonder how long had they suffered? Did they ever try to reach for help? Was it even possible for them?

And then, like Mike Tyson punching me in the gut with a boxing glove adorned with razor blades, pointed stones and broken glass, the final thought would hit:

If these people had success, and people that loved them and still couldn’t beat their demons, what hope do I have?

Why should I believe that I’m any more capable than them?

It’s not logical.

Thinking that way. And comparing ones own pain to another seems almost narcissistic which makes you feel even worse about yourself. But then suicide doesn’t make for logical thinking.

Everyone of those scenarios I listed at the beginning, a normal person would look at that and not think about how much they wished they were dead to ease their pain.

They wouldn’t sit down and look at all the positives yet also manage to justify killing themselves like taking cough syrup to cure a cold.

A recent article I read, says it’s a thing. They drive in suicide is ramped up with mentioning of a celebrity one. They call it a Contagion.

Sounds more like the plot for another Zombie Shooter game, right?

And I suppose knowing that should in a way make me feel better that I’m not alone.

Instead, it makes me feel about the same as when I confessed my depression and suicide thought to my Significant Other, and she in turn confessed hers to me.

There is a sight of relief, from understanding, but that’s brief because of the following thought:

“My God, why do you have to experience this hell, too?”


Haz que el dolor desaparezca. La luz al final del túnel es un tren.

Quiero la muerte por favor.

Banging My Head On The Ceiling

For a while I wasn’t sure why I keep playing Street Fighter V.

Enjoyment isn’t a word I would use to describe my feeling with this game.

Frustration seems fitting as I spend more time yelling at my TV while playing online instead of enjoying.

I often utter “Good Game” after losing repeatedly. And this is stupid simply for the fact that the person who won and is miles away from me, can’t hear me say it because I’m not chatting with them as they pummel my feeble attempts at playing.

“Good Game” is said for the same reason a Preacher might say “God Forgive Me!” after someone cuts him off and takes the parking spot he was eyeing in a Christmas Season mall parking lot.

It’s the ending to a personal verbal tirade and a reset to lost human sensibility while swaying on tilt.

You can’t just tell someone to eat a bag of dicks after saying “Good Game,” because then, no matter how much your gritted teeth poison the saying of “GG’s”, any ill intentions to immediately follow will have lost much of their venom.

I know this only because I’ve lost enough times at this damn game to basically have a PH.D in Salt Intake.

Clearly I don’t love this game.

I like it.

But I hate it too.

And it’s at this point I find myself wondering why the hell do I keep playing this game.

Why not move on  and try to play more of Mortal Kombat, or Tekken, or just say to hell with Fighting Games and go back into the wacky world of JRPG’s or QTE-laden Action Titles.

And it hit me recently in the midst of losing yet again to Cross-Ups, Throws, Frame Traps, and the occasional Raging Demon–F*ck you Akuma player #345…Good Games my dude–that the reason I keep playing Street Fighter V is because I’ve clearly hit my own ceiling.

And I want to bust through it so badly because it’s the only ceiling I feel I can break.

Look, I don’t have any rose-colored dreams about becoming a major success with unconditional love, support, and a bitchn’ Credit Score.

Those notions of owning a home or having the body of a Apollo Crews, or having an actual career instead of a low-paying slave working gig in retail flew out the window several years ago as my expectations out of life dwindled more and more.

I’m now in my early 30’s, seemly forever stuck in a hometown I swore in my teens to leave and never come back to again. I’ve bounced between living with roommates to back among my parents’ dwelling like some bottom feeding parasite. I’m burning bridges and crumbling friendships and relationships with people, I conned into giving a damn about me, because I still haven’t figured out how not to be such an introverted piece of shit bastard to them in one form of another. I’m unable to help them cope with their own demons because my man-child ass can’t seem to really help myself.

And my self-loathing increases exponentially every time  I refuse to drive myself off a bridge and into a lake on my way to work because I literally had a shortcut available but had to be a coward and take the long way.

I don’t say any of this to ferret some sympathy.

And advice could be given to someone more deserving.

I’ve accepted my place, and know that the only real best case scenario I have in all of this, is putting the student loan debt collectors on speaker phone while I hang myself, and becoming some New York Times think-piece that gets dissected, misread, and bashed to shreds on Facebook and Tumblr.

The ceiling on life is so low and impenetrable that I wake up everyday with a crick in my neck.

And deep down, it’s because of that ceiling I have this obsession with breaking the ceiling for some dumb fighting game.

I can’t quit SFV.

Besides, I just picked up Nash and his school outfit.

I mean…Swag.


Short Stories To Nowhere: What Money Can’t Buy…

At first, we thought the black liquid was oil, that we’d struck it rich and that we’d be able to retire and live in leisure. We actually started writing down all the ways we’d spend the money.

Our first choice was a jet-ski which was silly in retrospect as neither of us knew how to swim. It was more of a personal status symbol between our two-person minimum wage club. It was the tattered banner for the never-hads but always wants, eyes always hungry for what we needed and starving for what we desired.

For those that say money can’t buy you happiness, they’ve obviously never witnessed the child-like glee of a grown-ass adult on a jet-ski. Or if they have, then maybe they’ve just seen it too many times for it to mean anything anymore.

Anyway, as for our third choice when it came to spending that Texas Tea money: swimming and riding lessons, obviously.

Yet, life has a funny way of transforming your precocious wishes you knew you wanted into a twisted necessity you didn’t know about before.

The black liquid that Jerry poked at with his teal titanium metal hiking stick wasn’t oil.

Oil doesn’t grab and pull when you poke and prod it.

Oil drips and wets and stains.

It doesn’t sway and  undulate on your skin as if its creating its own sea upon your best friend.

And it doesn’t twist and snap bones.

It doesn’t cause your best friend whom you’ve known since 2nd Grade to scream enough for every critter hiding and surrounding to scatter in fear. Nor stare through you with iris-less eyes and stumble and move towards you with a rhymthm to haphazard to mimic.

This wasn’t oil.

This is was evil.

This was both unholy death and re-birth of my best friend.

And this was going to be either the end of him or me.

Survival is true but harsh.

Jerry beat me in a number of bike races around Eagle Point as a kid. He cheered me on when I made it on the College Wrestling Team. And he spent many bar trips with me as I replayed how my marriage crumbled into absolute failure.

Now, Jerry shuffled towards me, snarling and roaring at me like a violent mongrel. His arms clawed at me, gripping more air and murderous intent.

I stood frozen into a hitter’s stance with my “hiking stick” a worn down Louiville Slugger given to me by a brother who now only wanted me dead.

If I had the money to spend, I’d buy a way to fix Jerry.

I’d buy a way for me not to kill him, so he won’t kill me.


Untitled Drafts #1

Have you ever been so tired that it feels no amount of sleep would cure you?

Just wanting everything to fade to black one last time.

Rest these tired and tried bones.

And give every poor soul whose had the misfortune of knowing you a proper rest and release from you.

Lord knows they deserve the freedom from you and your shenanigans.

It’ll pass.

This feeling.

You’ll bounce back.

Start the cycle over again.

See, now?



Have you ever been so tired…

News Junkie: North Korea Is Not Happy With The U.S.

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Welcome to the first ever News Junkie section where we take a brief look at the stories that caught my today while scrolling past the social media deep sea of clickable noise.

Whats in store for today?

How about North Korea, Sea Lice,  Robots falling, and a Luciferian Heat Wave.

They’re Not Happy With US

North Korea is unhappy with the U.S. I mean in the past decade I can’t think of a time when they haven’t been unhappy with the U.S., but amid recent sanctions from the U.N. that will make it harder for the country’s revenue through primary exports which includes coal, iron, and seafood, North Korea won’t fondly think of ‘Merica anytime soon.

The U.N. Sanctions are a response to the country’s long-range ballistic missile test on July 4 and July 28. North Korea blames the U.S.–many believe the sanction do stem from U.S. pressure–for the U.N. placing these sanctions, and according to North Korean Foreign Minister Ri Yong Ho, the country would still “teach the US a severe lesson” if military force was ever used. The Country’s media organization later mirrored Yong Ho’s statements while also adding that the U.S. isn’t safe from an attack.

This turned into an after-school game of Command And Conquer so fast.


We will, under no circumstances, put the nukes and ballistic rockets on the negotiating table.”

—Ri Yong Ho

My Take: 

Tensions continue to boil between the U.S. and North Korea, with the U.S. treating the North Korea like a snotty teenager it will welcome to the dinner table when it feels its mature enough by dropping its nuclear weapon phase, and North Korea acting like said snotty teenager by threatening to rebel thinly veiled implied nuclear attack.

Sadly, none of this is surprising. In fact, the only surprising factor North Korea related was the mention of a brief interaction between it and its Southern counterpart. During a recent gala dinner in Manila, Philippines, which featured a bevy of global diplomats, Ri Yong Ho and South Korea Prime Minister Kang Kyung-wha had a brief conversation, which was probably just small talk but did apparently include mention of a more diplomatic talks in the future.

According to media in South Korea, the offer of talks from the North and hope of true diplomacy lacked any real sincerity. But considering that this was the first of any real diplomatic interaction between the countries, you’d have to consider this somewhat of a small victory.

Other Stories That Caught My Eye:

ATLAS (the robot) has Fallen

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In This Edition Of Why Australia: Sea Creatures Chew A Teen’s Leg

Lucifer Is Heating Up Europe