Sex…Then Suicide

Do you want to know how fucked in the head I am?

I just had the most amazing sex of my life.

How amazing?

The type of sex that would make the devil and god mutually masturbate to…That amazing.

My new lover is a freak–even by SF standards. She has four and a half hard no’s, while I have a solid five, so I’m the prude of the relationship.

Her lip’s bleeding, and she’s walking with a limp; my frenulum is sprained, and my back looks like a Vietnamese Catwoman gave me a massage.

I have to go to the hardware store tomorrow to buy spackle and paint because the back of her head put a dent in two of the walls in her apartment—serves her right for saying I couldn’t be too rough.

Shit, she’s knocking on the door the door to see if I’m alright—I can only pretend like I’m taking a shit for so long.

Alright…so me being fucked in the head.

Her apartment is on the eleventh floor of a tenement surrounded by homeless people using shopping carts for barbeques, and gutterpunks shooting up. I think she said it’s two grand a month for her one bedroom “box”. Fucking crazy. SF, man—it’s nuts out here. “At least you have a living moat of homeless drug addicts to keep the hipsters at bay,” I told her. She laughed.

Fuck, she’s knocking again. “One moment, the chile rellenos fucked my stomach up,” I said. She laughed.

Fuck, where was I..Um…um..rambling…rambling…….OH, so she’s a freak. She likes pain and pleasure and hate and love and cuddling and scratching and biting and fear; she likes a lot of things most girls would consider nightmarish. She knows that I like to write; that I have an overactive imagination; that I’m a doll-hair away from being as freaky as she is, so she always asks me to create new dark scenes for us to reenact. I said that I’d break into a cemetery with her, find a grave of a person with an interesting name–maybe Malachi–and fuck her on top of it while she screamed their name.

How ugly.

She thinks it’s pretty, though.

“For real, B?” she just said.

Fuck, I need to backpedal to finish: me being fucked in the head.

After covering every square-micron of her room in our sex sweat, she pointed towards her open window, grabbed my dick like it was the handle of a little red wagon and pulled me across the room. “Fuck, it’s cold outside,” she said as her nipples rested on the windowsill of her eleventh story apartment.

“Fuck me, B,” she said then…and just said now through the door of her bathroom.

She said faster, so I did; she said harder, so I did—her moans blanketed the streets of SF in a coat of ethereal pleasure.

“Come inside me, B!” she screamed.

As I was about to cum, I looked out of the window, down at the sea of unfortunate souls living in this sad paradise, and Imagined jumping out of the window. I imagined my lover reaching out to me as my nude body falls to heaven. I imagine cumming at the exact moment I splat against the cold concrete of the city I used to love.

That’s how fucked in the head I am.




Suicide Notes from a Man Who Died of Old Age

I know there’s nothing I could possibly say to ameliorate the pain I’ve caused by doing this.

I know that many of you will blame yourselves.

I know that many of you won’t recover from this for years, maybe ever.

I know that this might seem selfish–believe me, I know this…I know all of this. But it has to be done. 

Please know that the combined pain all of you are feeling at this very moment doesn’t equal half the pain I’ve felt– half the pain I’m feeling at this very moment. Please know this.

Please, please, please don’t blame yourselves. For the last five years I’ve suffered in silence, occasionally crying in class, or on lonely walks home from school, or while eating dinner with you, saying it’s allergies. Horrible things happened to me that I tried to write out here, but my hand started to shake and tremble, and I started to cry, so I’ll leave that portion of my pain out of this, but it’s none of your fault. No one who’s reading this is responsible for my pain. The people that hurt me will probably not get what’s coming to them until they’re old and alone. They’ll remember the pain, and hopefully hear that I killed myself, partly due to them, and off themselves, or maybe they won’t remember, not realizing the pain they caused. But honestly, I think I would be in pain even if I’d lived a picturesque life–it’s just me.

I don’t believe in heaven, but if it did exist, and I got in, somehow, I would find a way to be miserable in it. My souls tainted and broken, and it needs to be destroyed.

I’m tired.

I want oblivion.

I’m sorry.

I love you all.


Johnny wiped away the tears he just realized were flowing, and dropped the note back into the box his grandfather bequeathed him.

“Why would Grandpa leave me this?” he whispered to himself.

He anxiously shuffled through the rest of the box, finding note after note filled with sad words.

“Why would Grandpa leave me this?” he asked himself again, before closing the box, and reading the note written on the top of it in grandpa’s trademark calligraphy he tried to teach Johnny to no avail.

To you, Johnny, and only you. I hope this will help you through your struggles, son. I love you.

Johnny walked out of his room, down the hallway to the living room where his mom was with a glass of straight vodka, looking at a note, over a box similar to his, crying uncontrollably.

Johnny never could take the sight of his mother crying–it always resulted in him bawling harder and louder.

He walked over to hold her and cry together.

“Don’t cry, ma, please,” he said, despite knowing that nothing in existence could dam the deluge flowing down her cheeks.

“Why did gra–,” he started to ask before his mom interjected. “Grandpa left that for you, and only you. The same way he left this for me, and only me. And many others for people he loved. I don’t know why, but I’m sure there’s a reason.”

They held each other and cried for a few eternal minutes.

“I know this was a long and painful day, Johnny, but we’ll get over it together.” she whispered into his ear as her head rested on his shoulder. “You don’t have to go to school tomorrow, baby, but it’s late, and you should go to bed. Tomorrow will be a better day, I promise,”

He reluctantly let go of his mother and asked, “Are you going to bed?”

“Yes babe, in a little bit.”

Johnny walked down the hall, turning back before opening his bedroom door, and watched his mom pour another glass of vodka, down it, then poor another.

He started to cry again as he took off his clothes and got into bed, telling himself that he would never be able to sleep.

Staring up, wide awake, at his ceiling that he recently covered in glow in the dark planets and spiral galaxies and shooting stars, he remembered a trick his grandfather taught him for restless nights. He started to count the stars, then he multiplied them by ten, then divided by five, then multiplied again and again and again, calming his racing mind, until finally falling asleep.

His mom lied, but it wasn’t her fault. Tomorrow wouldn’t be a better day.

I don’t like the wording of this. There’s much to be done, but I needed to write it down. I’ll go through it and make it prettier, hopefully.

This is the first page of a short story I’m going to attempt to write about a grandfather who lived to 99, leaving his depressed grandson a box of suicide notes he wrote throughout his life. Each page, or most pages/post, will begin with one of the suicide notes, and end with moments/days his depressed grandson goes through, corresponding or running parallel to his pain in different ways, helping him realize that he’s not the only one that experiences despair.

I’m sleepy, so I’m going to go do math in my bed until I fall asleep. Hopefully I’ll wake up to some critiques.

A Cardboard Chest Filled with Fool’s Memories

I left work early today, nearly quitting, in an anxious rush to get home. Of course, the elevator down from my office on the top floor hit each stop, gradually filling up with five people, which, to me, is overcapacity. One coworker asked if I wanted to go get sushi with her. I absolutely didn’t want to. I didn’t even want to talk to her. Or see her. But not because of her. She’s nice. It’s because of me. It’s always because of me. The fact that I had to talk to her was my fault–I broke my own rule which prohibits my anxious mind from using the elevator outside specified times: usually at 11:47, 1:47 or 4:47, or sometime thereabout. All other times I take the stairs, but I have to take the elevator when I leave because our company’s bike rack is on the bottom floor, in the lobby. I could take the stairs down, walk through the front door, buzz in, grab my bike, buzz out, but the times I’ve done so wound up drawing even more attention than the elevator so I’m fucked either way.

I hurried to my bike, hurried out, and hurried to the bike path I take to downtown Redwood City. My life is a just a series of protracted hurried events.

I pulled up to the train station as my train left. Fuck, the next train doesn’t come for an hour–an hour of idle time my current mind state shouldn’t have for the sake of my liver and sanity. Luckily, it’s blazing hot outside, and I have an hour bike ride after the train, and while a drunken bike ride in the early evening is amazing, a drunken bike ride in midday heat is unbearable.

After smoking five or six cigarettes, my train came. It was empty and beautiful; I even managed to read a few backlogged Jorge Luis Borges short stories.

My bike ride home was speedy but relatively uneventful.

I got to my house, and walked straight to my garage, where the real battle commenced.

Don’t drink. Don’t drink. Don’t drink.

I’ll clean my garage.

My housemates just had a baby–a beautiful little girl that fills my mind with much needed this is what life’s about(s)–so our garage resembles a small BuyBuyBaby warehouse.

I love to organize things. It’s the perfect activity/work for an anxious person with a hectic life. This box goes here, this one goes there, it’s like Tetris.

Each box was punctiliously placed on the shelves of my garage, perfectly utilizing every inch of shelf space, but I still had five boxes, with only one place left, the rafters, which I hadn’t gone through in the six years I’ve lived at this house.

Most of the rafter’s contents consisted of garbage and random things the previous tenants left, but there was one box on its side, towards the back, covered in black tape with black Sharpie reading Fragile B Stuff.

It was my box, I think. I am B….and I am Fragile.

Industrial duct tape wrapped around the box in a way that damn near needed a hacksaw to open. As I sliced away at erroneous layers of tape, I tried to remember the contents. Old football cards? VHS tapes of Jurassic Park and Independence Day? Peruvian shrunken heads? A menagerie of cords to ancient devices? Jumanji? I really couldn’t remember.

I got the box open, and a chill ran up my spine like I had just opened Tutankhamun’s tomb.

It was definitely my box.

Luckily, the me that filled the cardboard chest was kind enough to include a bottle Johnny Walker Black.

I poured a glass, on the rocks with a little lemon and Perrier water, and stared at the contents for a minute, deciding whether I should toss it into my firepit, tape it back up and exile it back to the rafters, or bite the bullet and go through its contents…and hopefully not eat a bullet later.

I poured another drink, on the rocks with a little lemon and Perrier water, and pulled out the first item: a spiral notebook with the cover image of a cat hanging from a rope and the words Hang In There. 

Flipping through the pages made me sick to my stomach. It was filled with scribbles and sketches, incoherent ramblings in between hypergraphic pages, a myriad of negative words and sayings telling me to do horrible things to myself. Kill yourself, die, you’re worthless, you burden, what are you waiting for.  

It looked like a prop from a Japanese horror movie.

I felt like I was just cursed.

Cursed by my self.

Cursed by my past.

Cursed by dormant levels of self hatred that I should’ve destroyed years ago but intentionally left for my future self to find on a sad night like this, to finally push me over the edge…one last plunge into the abyss.

I left myself a cardboard chest filled with blueprints for suicide and treasure maps with X’s at the bottom of tall buildings and bridges, or on the pilots of trains.

I threw the notebook back into the box, on top of the dozens of other notepads, notebooks and stray papers, and took it to my currently quarantined room to be examined on another night.

Pour another drink,

on the rocks with a little lemon and Perrier water,

then repeat,

until I’m too drunk to read.

I’m sad and lonely, but I’ll be alright…I have my Johnny Walker.

Every dark age births a renaissance, I tell myself. When my mood swings back to the brighter side I’ll go through my cardboard chest and write some posts about them…The Lost Books or something like that.

Lastly, I hate the title of this post, but I’m too drunk to think of anything better. It makes sense in my head, but it sounds strange when I say it–maybe someone else will have a better one.


Slow Suicide

Occasionally, while chain-smoking in my garage, I take a deep hit of one of my clove cigarillos and think, “That’s the one. That’s the hit that gave me cancer.”

I envision the cell’s birth and growth, somewhere on my pancreas. A pain manifests right below my rib cage.

I take to the internet, like all cyberchondriacs do, and learn everything about Pancreatic Cancer: signs, symptoms, survival rates, surgery methods.

I learn everything about the disease I just manifested, and after a while, with enough searches, I begin to accept it.

“I guess this is it,” I whisper to myself.

“How will I tell my mom..and my sisters…and my dad…and my friends and the seven other family members I like?”

I decide that I’m not going to tell anyone.

And I’m not going to go to the doctor.

I’m just going to die–a slow suicide.

It will likely be painful, but any other of my previous planned suicides would be much more painful…but for my loved ones, not me.

Jumping off a bridge or tall building or into a train, or overdosing on pills and booze would be relatively painless, for me, but it would ruin the lives of the seventeen people I love…and unfortunately love me for reasons unknown.

Pancreatic Cancer will have to do.

Don’t smoke kiddies.