They say that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Then again, it could be a permanent solution to a permanent problem. Hell, if you fuck it up it could be a temporary solution to a permanent problem. I don't know what it is about being suicidal that makes people treat you like a fucking six year old. Cos to be honest, it is a bit shit. Is it really that surprising that the thought of suicide crosses our minds every now and then? That little voice that tells you to jump. Those moments when you remind yourself how thin the line is. And it's easier to shut them down, to supress them, slap a big suicidal label on anyone who dares to say them out loud. But are they not the most human thing? Reminding yourself that you have control over your fleeting little life if nothing else. But, if you kill yourself right now, kids are still going to go to school, get their lunch money stolen. DFS are still going to have another one off half price winter sale. Prepubescent teens are going to fuck up their first time and still brag about it to their friends. The clocks will keep ticking. You know, in this great nation of ours about fourteen people kill themselves every day. Is that what you want to become? A number? Part of a number? A fucking tally on a fucking spreadsheet filed away somewhere deep in the office of national statistics, until some entrepreneurial fuckwit digs it out in a half-baked attempt to convince us all that we need to invest in his pricey safety initiative. Or a stat some teacher sticks in her assembly slide show, just to remind the kids that the school has a counselling team, as if ten minutes of circle time and a colour coordinated leaflet on dealing with stress is really going to tip the balance. Cos you're right. You don't matter, not in the grand scheme of things. Well, I mean, like I'd miss you, but then I'm going to fucking die. Bill Murray, Mrs Buckston's cat, that racist man at the end of my road. Not of it matters, not in the end. Except Bill Murray, he is a treasure. But still, a hundred years from now, you and I are going to be nothing but a few faded photos in a shoebox and an abandoned Facebook profile. Or maybe Facebook will be dead and all. Ultimately it's all pointless, but then what does that even mean? As a species we seem obsessed with finding a purpose, a point to everything. But maybe there isn't one. Or maybe there is and this is it. Kill Peter Wright if you have to but don't kill yourself. Jump on the next Eurostar to Belgium, leave all this behind. Pursue a life as a chocolatier in the rural tranquillity of Derby. Learn a new language. Marry the local barmaid with the massive tits and grow old in a thatched cottage. Can you imagine. your grandkids would love you, you'd be like Willy Wonka to them or something. No but I'm serious. Is that not better than dying? If you really were committed to that idea of saying goodbye then surely you have the conviction to bag up and start afresh. I know you're not religious but the way I see it you have three options: either you meet your maker and find out that suicide's a sin, so good luck with that. Alternatively, you're reincarnated as a mosquito and find out that your best efforts were wasted. Or, you assume that this is the one shot we get. Stick it out for a bit. See what happens.
