A Suicide Method for the Artist (i)

I think I’m going to kill myself today.  Seems like a nice day to do it.  Sunny.  60’s.  Rainy day deaths are cliché and overdosed anyway.  Maybe, if I’m lucky, it’ll rain after my heart stops beating and someone will say, after remembering me in some half-a*s spotty memory outskirt of a half-assed legend, that I made the Earth so upset with my sudden departure that She cried at the loss, assuming my procedure doesn’t stain Her ground or ruin some of Her plants or disturb the birdsong.  The method has to be perfect and respectful to everyone and everything in the collateral landscape.  I’m pretty sure that the anticipation of using a gun would keep me from following through.  I don’t like guns and didn’t hunt like the rest of my friends while growing up in Mississippi.  Guns freak me out and I’d probably be so nervous just holding the damn thing that my resolve would become shaken, not to mention all the consideration that goes into the bodyeographical placement of the weapon and its tiny metal fists, I almost lose sight of my plan just now thinking about it!  The Hemingway Method just doesn’t entice me.  There is an allure to jumping off a height but, again, the anticipation of the pursuing, welcoming adamant completely deflates any romance the caressing wind might woo on the flighter.  Although, ending the fall into the drink remedies the problem for just a second before the possibility of survival creeps into the thought-picture and therefore shakes the peaceful breath carriage back into the planning thought-garage.  Actually, I should probably go ahead and set a benchmark here: any method with unsettling survival feasibilities is abjured.  The Pedestrian Method of stepping into traffic, the Elliot Smith Method of stabbing one’s self in the heart, various overdosing methods: there’s too much margin for error-survival here.  The Plath Method seems a pretty sound except, when I go over the details on my thought-list, I tend to find some humor in the possible positions the outer shell is left for the finder. I need to get creative.  How could I take myself by surprise?  A suicide method for the artist; for the dreamer; for the self-respecting self-hater.  Poison has always had a sexy curve to it but the decision between the Socratic Method, the willing self induced, and the People’s Temple at Jonestown Method, the oblivious fruity tasting aid, is, once again, a difficult choice in its boring aptitude and therefore repels the finality of my resolution.  A British mathematician named Alan Turing answered his equation by injecting an apple with cyanide and taking a bite.  The Turing Method is appealing if altered slightly to having, let’s say, ten apples and injecting a random one so that one might sneak up on one’s self and, in the seconds of the recognition of certain death, one would smile and think, You finally got me, didn’t you?  You slick b*****d.  One might have a feeling of accomplishment, of victory, of triumph, of success; the feeling of defeat would undoubtedly be slim and fleeting, yet sweet, seeing as how the goal was coming to fruition in an innovative, avant-garde scheme.  Yes.  The Turing Method.  I like it.  And even though it might be the most attractive method I’ve run across, it still doesn’t completely fulfill my intention: I think I’m going to kill myself today.  

Reviews

[AdamGunther]

I like the repetition of the first sentence at the end, comes full circle which is always cool. As a whole I really enjoyed the piece, one line that is sticking with me is when you say "bodyeographical placement of the weapon with its tiny metal fists"

You can feel and see the moment and the fear/loathing of the gun method