ITT: We write our theoretical suicide letter

It'll be too late by the time you read this.

Hey fuckers. Judging by the body hanging from the wall you probably know what this is, so I won't waste your time. What's your favorite jerk-off techniques? Do you prefer rubbing it or yanking it? I've left some space below so you can leave your answer. Personally I've always enjoyed jerking off while standing up. It sounds weird, but believe me, it's fun. When you're done mourning, you should try it sometime.

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Why are breakfast food breakfast foods? Like, why don't we have curry for breakfast?

I mean seriously: How did scrambled eggs get stuck with breakfast exclusivity? You can put bacon on a sandwich without anyone freaking out. But the moment your sandwich has an egg, boom, it's a breakfast sandwich.

My name is not important. What is important is what I'm going to do ... I just fuckin' hate this world. And the human worms feasting on its carcass. My whole life is just cold, bitter hatred. And I always wanted to die violently. This is the time of vengeance and no life is worth saving. And I will put in the grave as many as I can. It's time for me to kill. And it's time for me to die. My genocide crusade begins here.

I was born and now i will die. So what?

no note is the only way to go you teenagers

"And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home at put a bullet through his head."

This world couldn't hold me.

I am going to put myself to sleep now for a bit longer than usual. Call it Eternity

BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK

I'm so happy!
Aha! happy go lucky me!
I just go my way,
Living everyday!

I don't worry!
Worrying don't agree,
Things that bother you,
Never bother me!

Things that bother you,
Never bother me
I feel happy and fine!
Aha!
Living in the sunlight,
Loving in the moonlight
Having a wonderful time!

Haven't got a lot,
I don't need a lot
Coffee's only a dime
Living in the sunlight,
Loving in the moonlight,
Having a wonderful time!

Just take it from me,
I'm just as free as any daughter.
I do what i like,
Just what i like,
And how i love it!

I'm right here to stay
When i'm old and gray,
I'll be right in my prime!
Living in the sunlight,
Loving in the moonlight,
Having a wonderful time!

Just take it from me,
I'm just as free as any daughter.
I do what i like,
Just what i like,
And how i love it!

I'm right here to stay,
When i'm old and gray,
I'll be right in my prime,
Living in the sunlight,
Loving in the moonlight,
Having a wonderful time!

I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane.

ONE NOTHING WRONG WITH ME

TWO NOTHING WRONG WITH ME

THREE NOTHING WRONG WITH ME

FOUR NOTHING WRONG WITH MEE

My non-theoretical suicide note, which I plan to send by email.

"By the time you read this, I'll be dead. I'm grateful for the time we spent together, but losing you was the worst thing that ever happened to me. The pain was too much so I decided to kill myself. I wish you all the best."

I'll put it on delay send for a few days so I can cancel it if the attempt fails or if I chicken out. I don't really have anything to say to my family or anyone else so I won't leave a physical note. It's not very long but I feel like I've basically covered everything in our previous conversations anyway.

boo fucking hoo, loser. get that noose tight.

I'm not looking for sympathy. I've spent a lot of time researching knots so the noose should be fine.

>I'm not looking for sympathy

That's what every attention seeking faggot says when he posts his dirty laundry on Veeky Forums expecting people to care.

Just do it. You've already made another person disgusted with your pathetic life. The more time you waste, the more will follow suit.

I'm going to sedate myself with some drugs to make it easier but I won't have them until later on in the week. You're just going to have to be patient, I'm afraid.

Everything in this world is imperfect
Therefore this note is imperfect

Goodbye

Finally, some peace and quiet.

dont kill yourself pls

They don't deserve this, you faggot.

Yes they do.
No, but I appreciate the sentiment.

Jokes aside, killing yourself isn't worth it.

I wrote this in December and spent a long night staring at it in a laundry room. I've felt better in the months since but this was one of my lowest points.

"I am not happy. I don't think I ever have been happy. All my life I looked around and saw people who were happy on accident, people who felt happiness effortlessly. I think being depressed is something like being deaf. Something holds me back and prevents me from feeling the way they feel. I can tear at it and yell at it and ignore it and shed tears for it but I can never remove it.

This is not anyone's fault. It was a very selfish decision. Paul and Anne and Mom and Dad and Jeanne and Bob loved me, and I loved them. Omar and Gibson and Sierra and Tony and Santa Cruz and Mitchell loved me, and I loved them. I wish I could do this without hurting all of you. If anything, this furthers the fact that I was always a bad son and brother and friend and person.

I wish I had been a good person. Everything I did and said was an effort to be a better one, to get closer to that. I never made it. I was surrounded by good people all the time, but I never lived up to a single one of them.

I was also a bad roommate, but I think a rule somewhere says that since I'm dead Auryan gets an A in all his classes. I am sorry for causing you as much trouble as I often did. Someone can use the white paint and paintbrushes I left to fill in the holes in the ceiling left by my poster. Or just tell Housing that a dead man made them.

I have a lot of regrets. I wish I had been in love with someone. I wish I had seen much more of the world and met many more people. I wish I had contributed something great that would give cause for me to be remembered. I wish I had more and better ideas for art. Seeing a person smile at something I made is the best thing I ever felt, but I was never creative or skilled enough to continue all of that.

Most of all I wish I had the willpower to keep looking for happiness and not give up like this. Maybe one day I might have found it and realized everything was worth it.

But I am not strong enough to continue looking.

I cannot hold my breath anymore.

Maybe that proves I deserved this the whole time."

Easy, easy easy easy.

it is for me

good luck mate. life has no meaning, so it's equally meaningless to kill yourself. good luck though, just make sure you dont half ass it and end up a vegetable. i'm sure i wont be too far behind. none of us will.

I'm a fan.

"After my suicide attempt failed and I ended up in a hospital, with my family and friends at the bedside: I regained consciousness, but they didn't notice, and still talked about how fortunate my survival was. Some scolded me or called my a fool, but with such relief in their words that i couldn't be happier. As I woke up, recovered, found a job, they didn't left me: father, mother, Jerry and Paul. When I got published, they cheered, a problem child finally turned adult - well, then came the money, and love, not as a consequence, perhaps as a cause. The rest is not that important, but you can conjure the picture."

>giving a shit

honestly i'm too scared to ever do it. i wouldn't be unhappy if it happened to me, though

"The rope finally claimed a worthwhile author."

Life seems to be a black and white silent movie about nothing, flickering silently on film superimposed onto the retinas of my eyes.

The movie is almost over.

same with me m8... im pretty sure i have cancer though, so if i play my cards right i should be gone soon

really? that's sad user. i honestly hope you don't.

life will never end the way this picture represents.

I miss myself

I'm not gonna try and get all sentimental about this, I've never been much for talking about feelings. The truth is life's been fun and life's been shit. I guess for me the shit outweighed the fun, I just hope this doesn't spoil every good memory we have together. Maybe I'm a coward for taking the easy way out, I hope some of you can forgive me for it.

there's such a pressure for the last words to be something substantial, I just don't have anything substantial to offer. guess that makes this goodbye.

Why kill myself now when there are so many things coming that will probably do it for me? I was reading that all the cocaine I used to do may give me a heart attack by the time I'm 50. I think a lot more of violence and strife is going to come into the world and if I still feel like offing myself there will be plenty of opportunities in a few years. What's the rush?

-Suicide note found in a park in Fuknega prefecture-

To who it may concern.
When i was a small boy, i caught glimpse of the
spirit realm. I saw the ghosts busting their
spooky nuts on everything and everyone; and
they laughed, and were jovial at the fact of
our unawareness to their mischief.
They looked at me; looking at them.
They began to laugh, and they spoke
amongst themselves: ''Look, that one
can see us''. After this, i lost
the ability to see into the world
of the spirits. And i lived my life
and i was no different from anyone
else. But this was merely a farce.
For as i sat and looked upon my
friends, my family, and all that
i knew. I knew, i always knew;
The spirits were nutting on everything
that i held dear.-------------Goodbye.

Why kill yourself when you can just not care. Ive successfully brought my level of caring to minimal values and life has essentially been unlocked. Not in a yolo sense or fuck it sense but like a fuck you and me both sense.

"Fuck off"

So i assume you've had suicidal thoughts before?
What exactly do you mean by ''not caring'', not caring about what specifically? Maybe you're mixing up ''not caring'' with giving up.

Yeah thats more apt

Sorry.

I saw the best minds of my generation starving, hysterical, naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls, incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between, Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge, a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room, who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night, who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas, who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels, who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain, who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa, who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago, who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets, who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed, who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts, who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may, who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword, who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom, who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake, who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices, who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium, who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blur floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion, who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery, who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom, who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade, who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried, who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,

danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles, who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity, who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz, who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave, who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury, who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy, and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East, Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon, with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination— ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time— and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,

you're all garbage and literally everything is bullshit. how could anyone live like this for more than a second? don't you people have any dignity?

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

...

Your ideas are logically sound, but you guys are still retarded. I may want to die often, but I'm holding out just in case my temperament changes later. Def will suicide when older though whenever I realize that I'm done. Still lots of sweet shit to do, however.

Delete my hard drives.

At one time you were soo sure your relationship would work that you invested all these feelings into it. Now, however, you're soo sure that its all over. Sounds like you're prone to overconfidence. Wouldn't it be shit to be wrong for a second time all because of her? Lel.

Anyway, if you realize that you're likely wrong about a lot of things and just stay patient, you'll be better than you were before the shit relationship. In Siddhartha when he feels totally fucked, he remembers to think, wait, and fast. I highly recommend it.

But you're probably just doing it to get back at your ex. You should just send her and everyone else the email, then take a two week vacation to Thailand to have sex with whoever you like. Then come back and be like PSYCHE faggots.

I think you're confusing this guy with me. I'm the one who is going to send the spiteful email to my ex and I always capitalize at the beginning of sentences. Yes, it's mostly to get back at her, but I also have bipolar disorder, so suicide is something I've thought about a lot and even attempted (tepidly) a number of times. This is the time that I intend to do it right.

I'm happy you're here today to share this, you made me smile. You love that or what? You should let go of your regrets, but don't forget about the content. It sounds like you haven't even become yourself. Afterall, what's a life where all your passions are kept inside?

And yes, I considered the possibility of just telling her I'd killed myself and disappearing for a while, but I genuinely do want to die. At this point, I don't see myself as having any other choice.

I have been beholden to others for too long. I do not want any of this. Fare well, or not at all.

I never thought I'd die alone
I laughed the loudest who'd have known?
I traced the cord back to the wall
No wonder it was never plugged in at all
I took my time, I hurried up
The choice was mine I didn't think enough
I'm too depressed to go on
You'll be sorry when I'm gone

I never conquered, rarely came
16 just held such better days
Days when I still felt alive
We couldn't wait to get outside
The world was wide, too late to try
The tour was over we'd survived
I couldn't wait till I got home
To pass the time in my room alone

I never thought I'd die alone
Another six months I'll be unknown
Give all my things to all my friends
You'll never step foot in my room again
You'll close it off, board it up
Remember the time that I spilled the cup
Of apple juice in the hall
Please tell mom this is not her fault

I never conquered, rarely came
16 just held such better days
Days when I still felt alive
We couldn't wait to get outside
The world was wide, too late to try
The tour was over we'd survived
I couldn't wait till I got home
To pass the time in my room alone

I never conquered, rarely came
Tomorrow holds such better days
Days when I can still feel alive
When I can't wait to get outside
The world is wide, the time goes by
The tour is over, I've survived
I can't wait till I get home
To pass the time in my room alone

this ride stopped being fun a long time ago and i wish to get off posthaste

jaja da har man kasta inn håndkleet :p

How old are you? I'm 31. Bipolar, too. Have (had?) other diagnosed psych troubles, but who cares. I think you shouldn't do it because you never know who may encounter you, or who you may encounter. I realize that with every suggestion there's a permeating "who gives an absolute fuck? It really doesn't matter". However, years ago I postponed my own suicide because I realized that this same such permeating sentiment applied to my own suicide as well. This allowed me to realize that I was just tired of feeling nothing, or sad, or misery, or lonely. Worse, I would get mania and be on top of the world sone days, prepared fully to accomplish whatever I'd decided to do that day. Of course it failes everytime. Of course gf pointed to my failures. Made me to feel like an inauthentic fraud of myself whereas prior to being with her my only aim was to try my best and see where it goes. Anyway, the realization I had gave me leverage to forgive myself, my ex, and the world for just a moment. The understanding that I really don't know shit about myself or the world saved me.

I'm reaching out this way because I remember days long past where I'd lay in bed and desperately wish someone would talk with me. I wished for someone. A friend, a lover, someone to help me feel okay. They didn't come. Then I stopped wishing because I'd grown to feel that I didn't deserve such a wish granted even if it were offered. I grew ashamed for wanting to survive, and even moreso for wanting others to help me survive. After nobody came, I was disgusted with everyone. I surely had no purpose here helping anybody. Almost decided to murder the ex but didn't bc simply didn't care enough. Anyway, we're not friends and may never be so, but I'm reaching out this way simply to put my hand on your shoulder for a moment to maybe help you remember to honor that part of yourself that at one point felt rightious toward being helped, cared for, loved, etc. I guess I just know that arbitrary feel and wouldn't wish it on anyone.

After the realization I had, I started doing off the wall shit to try to feel better. Shit that before I would have laughed at. Went to churches of all sorts, prayed, did dmt, did magic rituals, fasted for a week, volunteered at old folks homes, studied meditations of all kinds, let a dom girl fuck my ass (it was awful bro.), started reading, and did yoga. The reading, yoga, fasting, and mindfulness meditation stayed because they really made me feel well. They all made me feel like less of a burden, and more of somebody who could help or somebody who was worthy of help. It changed my life in the most embarassing way to the point where I'm writing this to you.

Sorry for getting in your business like this, just want to be that hand for you that wasn't there for me.

This is fucking gold

Good riddance.

I'm a mad memeing man and I've memed just as much memes as I can

Meme me on the other side

"Goodbye.
I'm going to kill myself but if you're reading this then that must mean I already did but there's no reason for me to point that out considering this suicide note is near my dead body over there on the ground with a knife sticking out of my cranium and into my branium and I say that I only want to write this note in the fashion of the one who wrote that novel with tortillas so I shoved a knife in my head because I knew that this note would only fail in providing this necessary condition of writing in this certain way while also using many words and unfortunately I failed to use many words and just repeated a bunch of simple words but that's only because I don't feel like editing this note or anything so if you're still reading this then something must be wrong because you should have called the police and read this letter now or maybe you are reading this now at a later time period after you called the police though I would not be able to tell because I can't tell the future and my abilities are unfortunately limited to only predictions which I am not good at.
Hello."

"Kill yourself.

t. the murderer"

"Feed my corpse to black people so they can absorb my power and have the IQ of whites."

"Hey."

Dear Mother,
Now, I'm not saying that I'm doing this just because you didn't buy me the iPhone I wanted for my birthday. All I'm saying is that if you had, my net happiness would have certainly been higher and, well, who knows how things would have turned out.
Food for thought.

That is a very good note, user. You are a good writer.

Before I went to college, I intended to be the most amazing English professor in the world. (Like the one I had in highschool, but with tenure and hotty groupies.) During college I wanted the same. During gradschool I wanted the same. And I wanted it very seriously. Many, many sacrifices were made towards this purpose. It worked. I became incredibly fast witted, well read, and intellectually potent. For nearly eight years all I did was read, study, and ignore the world.

However, in that time, colleges -- along with their rates of pay, hire, and tenure -- turned to absolute shit. It was shit before, but it became absolute shit while I wasn't paying attention.

Brilliant people with ten year long college educations, years of sacrifice, and loads of debt are being paid less and less. They're now just adjuncts thrown around for their dispensibility. They're some of the people who care and understand the most about others, but they often don't make enough to even afford a decently modern life.

I tried to do it. But the student body in Los Angeles grew to be apathetic and careless. It was largely made up of foreign students; so many that they simply began to make these classes easy to pass for non-native speakers.

As a rule, if a student does their work on time and shows up, entirely non-passing essays now must pass with a B. Otherwise your dean will contact you and remind you that because he must please the board, you must please him.

Anyway, my fire has burnt out. I sell cars now. I make six figures. I have a BMW. I have three girlfriends. But none of this is as sweet to me as passionately engaging text with other like minded people. However, this becoming less and less possible to do while leaving your dignity and self respect intact. So, here I am cold on the floor, now. Clean this shit up and give my BMW to whoever wins teacher of the year award at Pasadena City College this year.

get the fuck out of the anglosphere, faggot

Yeah, am considering. No idea where to go, however. Really, my spirit is just busted.

Dear Sirs,

As I think of something to write I am reminded of how I spent most of my life: sighing, listless, almost on the cusp of action but never quite breaking the threshold. I have never done anything of real significance purely from my own agency. Instead of following the voice stirring in my heart, I gave into what other people expected of me or followed the easy, beaten road to success. My death is hardly tragic because I never really lived. I have failed.

TOODLE LOO! PEACE OUT! DEUCES!

-user

"It's no big deal. Have fun and do good. We'll talk later."

I can't live like this anymore.

I'm sorry, dad.
Mom, stop fucking drinking.

Vietnam. It's the new South Korea which was the new Japan.

Your suicide letter consists of the first few sentences of a mediocre and forced Jerry Seinfeld bit. That's pretty sad.

lets see how it goes

-someone

youtube.com/watch?v=cg__WAY_J2Q

thats pretty deep

Fuck you all

your suicide letter is a response to a joke demeaning it :( I'll miss you guys, I didn't mean to write this

It's from a John Green book. You gotta keep up with all the memes, man.

Thank you for your heartfelt reply. I desperately tried everything I could after she left to deal with the loss -- meeting new people, casual sex, drugs and alcohol, psychiatric help, throwing myself into work, getting back into my old habits (including meditation and reading), even hospitalization -- but nothing has made any significant difference. I feel like all the time I stick around is just putting off the inevitable. I am beyond help at this point, but again, thank you for trying.

11/10

>tfw no gf