Suicide

If I were to commit suicide, and I can’t stress enough to you that I have no plans to commit suicide, if I were planning to actually commit suicide this would not in any way be a funny story, and I absolutely do understand that and want to take this moment to assure you, you will not hear about my suicide next week and think “Oh! I was just reading a piece on his blog about a suicide, and I laughed and laughed and laughed, oh my, but I’m a monster!” this will not happen and you do not have to worry about it, because I absolutely do promise not to commit suicide upon this night.

Although I don’t promise never to commit suicide. Options are always on the table after all, and while things are going okay with me right now I do have a history of both depression and crippling panic attacks that, while currently relatively mild and manageable, have been MUCH worse in my past and could for all I know overwhelm me in the future. There’s every chance that, when the end of my life comes, my cause of death does wind up being myself. It’s a possibility I’ve considered, and that I’m aware of, and that in some weird, small way, I’ve even managed to make my peace with.

But not today. And when it comes to suicidal depression, “Not today” really is the most empowering thing a person can say to himself, from a certain point of view.

So no, I have no plans to kill myself.

That said; IF I were to commit suicide, I do have a plan as to how I’d do it.

I’d get some cash together, probably via credit cards that I would never have to pay back, and count on the fact that the internet exists and that, in all likelihood, it wouldn’t be too hard to find a contract killer.

I’m pretty smart, after all, how hard could a contract killer be to find?

Once I found my killer, I’d stipulate the manner of my death in very specific language, and make it clear that unless my cause of death was to my liking my murderer would not get paid.

Because, in addition to a profound self-loathing, my character includes an equally profound narcissism, and I have an unhealthy need to be the center of attention at all times, as evidenced by the fact that here I am, discussing my own possible suicide in spite of the fact that I have no plans to commit such an act against myself any time soon.

So yes, I’d want my death to have maximum impact and, as I’d be paying a man to cause my death, I fortunately would have the opportunity to assure it was maximally impactful.

This is why if I were to commit suicide the method I would choose would be “Via Sniper.”

I’d be sure I didn’t know WHEN it was coming, only that it was, and how. This would cause me to seem suddenly unexplainably nervous and distracted whilst dealing with the people around me, perhaps leading them to wonder what I had going on that I wasn’t talking about.

If asked, I’d be evasive, claiming it was nothing, but not convincingly enough that anyone would believe me, just enough so that they’d let the matter drop, hoping I might bring it up on my own time at some future date.

Not knowing that no such future date, for me, would exist.

And when the time finally came, and my own sniper’s bullet ripped through my body, sharply, suddenly, killing me before I even hit the ground, before I was even aware of the people surrounding me, suddenly screaming in terror and scampering for cover, when the moment came I’d die knowing that, at the very least, I’d given the people in my world one last, surreal story to tell to one another at my wake.

“What the fuck was Munroe involved in, that they’d send a sniper after him?” My friends would ask, but they’d never know the answer because, of course, there wouldn’t be one. I wouldn’t be involved in much of anything, other than the hiring of a sniper off the internet.

And in that way my death would provide a little bit of mystery and magic to the world…

Now: Some of you might wonder if I would truly want my last act in this world to be a horrific act of violence against myself, for no reason other than to fuck with my friends one last time before I shuffled off this mortal coil.

And to those of you I say: Have you MET me?

Emptiness

Endless nothingness stretches out in all directions, and however loud I scream, however I might search, there is no answer, no response. Nor, I know, will there ever be.

I am utterly and completely alone.

But I’ve been alone before, I’ve felt lonely and isolated, I’ve fallen deep into the pit of self and had no one to turn to, no one to whom I could bring my worries and pain, no one from whom to take solace.

This is nothing new to me, and I’ve always made it through dark periods in the past. It’s something I’m quite used to having to deal with.

Admittedly, previous isolation was less literal than this. That was a more personal loneliness, one born of despair, of depression, one that could be pushed through with a few simple reminders that however dark my mood, it was temporary, while this…

This is purgatory.

Or it’s hell.

Things got fuzzy after my death, it’s hard at times to remember exactly where I am. Lack of oxygen to the brain toward the end, I suppose. The noose does tend to do that.

Either way, I’m here now, and I have to make the best of it…

I Want to Make A Movie

In my movie, I want Tim Allen to participate in a hit and run, only to return home to find that the person he’s run over and abandoned to die on the side of the road is none other than Santa, and that, due to an obscure clause in his contract, whoever kills Santa is forced to take his place. Over the course of the rest of the film we’ll focus on Mr. Allan’s transformation, both physical as he takes on the traditional form of Santa and mental as he becomes more generous and jolly, as his inner Santa comes to the fore.

The tone I intend to create, over the course of this film, is one of existential dread mixed with a healthy dose body horror, as an ordinary man is forced, as penance for one lapse of judgment, to watch helplessly as he is transformed beyond his recognition, as one by one the signifiers of identity he’s put so much stock in, both physically and mentally, are stripped from him, as he is consumed from the inside out by the Christmas Spirit, an angry ghost which must be appeased at all costs, and which has no care for the life it is consuming.

Partway through act two, Allen-Clause will discover that he’s no longer capable of taking his own life, that every time he tries the Spirit prevents him, seeking as it does to protect its host body until such time as the transformation is complete and it has total control, and due to this revelation he will spend act three seeking out someone, anyone, willing to put an end to his life while there’s still enough “self” left in him for his death, and by extension his life, to hold some measure of meaning.

Eventually, he’ll remember how he got into this mess in the first place, and run into a busy street, where he’ll be hit by a car and, in his dying moments, bloated body broken, from behind his white beard, he’ll let out a laugh, not the “Ho Ho Ho” his laugh had become, but rather the laugh of Tim Allen, weaker and more hoarse as he dies, but still inarguably his own. In this way the audience will know that, in death if not in life, he’s triumphed, both over the Spirit and its horrible clause.

I believe the film will be a fascinating look at the nature of identity, as well as a gripping horror story, and as such will release it midway through October, just in time for “holiday season” for this type of film. I also suspect I could bring it in with a relatively minimal budget, as I can’t imagine Tim Allen’s terribly busy nowadays, also a plus as the possibility of a sequel is obvious.

After all, somebody was driving the car that ran Allen-Clause over at the end of the film.

And, no matter what lengths the host bodies might go through to die, Santa does come every year, like clockwork. So however many hosts might succeed in ending their lives, eventually there will be one who isn’t strong enough to do what it takes, or lucky enough to do it in time. And that unlucky soul will be consumed so completely that it will be as though they’d never existed at all.

Because the Christmas Spirit will not be denied…

This is Not a Robbery

Everybody get down on the floor, hands behind your heads, and try your best to remain calm. This is not a robbery.

Maybe eighteen months ago, when I first lost my job at the firm, I’d have considered robbing a bank, but back then I thought a new job was just around the corner and that I’d be back on my feet in no time. And now that I realize what a joke those hopes were, it’s too late. The time has passed. It passed when my wife packed up the kids and moved back in with her parents.

They were my world. I tried to convince them things would get better, but after a year of waiting even I was beginning to doubt it. Once they were gone I felt like I had no reason to go on.

Didn’t even bother looking for a job after that. Didn’t see the point of it without a family to come home to afterward. I found it harder and harder to bring myself to care about anything at all. When the bank finally sent somebody around to kick me out of the house the only thing that surprised me was how little I cared.

Afterward, at a local shelter, my things in a trunk at the foot of my cot, I considered eating my gun. But that didn’t appeal to my sense of the dramatic. I’d always had a well-developed sense of drama, back when I was a man, and the idea that I die the way I wish I could have lived appealed to me.

So here I am. And no, this is not a robbery.

It’s a suicide attempt. And you’re presence is just an unfortunate side effect.

So try to remain calm as we wait together for the police to arrive.

Publish or Perish

Last December I joined a Facebook group for aspiring writers.

Publish or Perish.

The group was fairly self-explanatory. I pledged to take my writing more seriously, to finish the projects I started and to actually edit and submit my work for publication upon it’s completion. In exchange, the group offered a forum in which to communicate with other writers in the same position, a place to vent, moral support and a clearly defined goal.

Publish one story, just one, in a major print magazine over the course of calendar 2011. How hard could it possibly be? I had a whole year in which to do it!

I figured the group would give me the kick in the pants I needed to get some pages written and it honestly has. I’ve gotten more work done this year than I ever have, and I credit the group with a large part of the motivation that took. I’ve kept up my friday flash stories week after week, expanded them from drabbles to stories of 500 to 3000 words, and even have my first novel outlined and ready to begin drafting come November. I’ve placed stories on a number of online magazines and podcasts, including appearances on some of my favorite audio fiction ‘casts. Hearing my work performed makes me prouder than I can say.

But I still haven’t placed a story in a major print magazine.

I’m doing my best not to worry about it, but sometimes I can’t help it. The twelve month deadline the group imposed seemed like forever when I joined up, but now it’s nearly November and, while I’ve accomplished a lot, the one hard, fast goal they established continues to elude me. I’ve even started having stress dreams about the deadline, now only two months away.

Which I understand is dumb. Stressing out never helped accomplish anything. But I can’t help it.

After all, they made it perfectly clear what was expected of me. Publish one story, just one, in a major print magazine over the course of calendar 2011. And they made the consequences of failure equally clear. I mean, it was right in the name of the group, and I did join of my own free will…

I do still have two months. I’m still writing, and improving every day. I’m still editing and submitting, and it’s certainly not too late.

But, in the meanwhile, I’ve bought a gun.

Just in case.