Monday, March 30, 2009

You're Killing Me, Buster

Since my birthday last Tuesday, two different people have independently suggested that I kill myself. Perhaps the reminder that another year of my life has passed was enough to push them over the edge of realizing they couldn't stand another moment with me in it.

They both were joking, of course, but when I think of things that are as funny as suggesting suicide to a woman already hanging over the edge of sanity, the main mental picture that comes to mind is chasing down a kitten with a knife. When you think about it, though, that's actually pretty funny.

So I did some research, and the most interesting thing I found was the statement that most people who commit suicide do so for the same reason people commit crimes: to be put into a situation in which they no longer have to make choices. For criminals, that situation is jail. Essentially, then, suicide is the relegation of one's self to a situation theoretically without agency, if that's what you consider death to be.

For most, that type of complete lack of freedom is called Hell. So I suppose that what my colleagues were saying was simply a creative and indirect way of telling me to go to Hell.

But since I'm feeling neither creative nor indirect, I'll just say it:

Up yours, guys.

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