I hope that I can get this letter done by midnight, as I’m being told by very reliable and very educated sources that the world is, in fact, ending at that time. It’s ironic, mate: I used to do nearly everything in my power to try to end the world (or at least my world), but now the very proposition of such a thing bums me out immensely. There is still so much that needs to be said, so much between us that happened that I simply must get out before I check out.
I need more time, Dionysus: Much, much more time.
I used to live on stolen time and before that is was borrowed time and before that it was taken time but I never took the time to take the time to make the time to book the time to earn my time, dig? I was just taking all the time, and I never even had the common courtesy to make it mine. It was lunacy but it all made sense– at the time.
But now I need more fucking time.
When I think of all the times I tried to punch my own clock, I feel positively ridiculous. There were more than a few, weren’t there? And that’s not even counting the ongoing, steady decline towards decomposition I was on just by going about my day to day habits.
But habits will kill ya, same as a gun
Except they’re much more regular and much more fun!
I have always been fascinated by death, Dionysus– even intoxicated by it. The mystery of it, the finality of it, the unavoidable certainty of it–what a fucking beautiful, romantic concept it is! And perhaps that’s why I always found suicide (especially young suicide) so romantic: What courage, what bravado, what steadfast resolution it must take to face that one head on and say, with the utmost certainty and resolve, “Fuck your schedule, you scythe-slinging, reaper-headed son of a bitch—I’m showing up to this party early.”
And the best kind, the absolute best kind of suicide, was one that was a direct result of romantic heartbreak. I probably read Romeo And Juliet at too young an age or something, but if you got your heart broken and then offed yourself, I thought you were it, man. Because what you’re really saying when you pull that Elliott Smith routine is: “I have experienced the utmost level of human existence and, now that it has been snatched from my lovesick fingers, I will be abstaining from the rest of the show, because anything and everything else can not and absolutely will not compare to what I have already felt. So I’ll be exiting stage left now. Be sure and tip your pallbearers.”
And let’s not forget the suicide note, Dionysus. The suicide note! I wrote enough suicide notes to compose an entire suicidal symphony, a veritable slamdance macabre. It is very much in my nature to revise, mate– which is one of the reasons why these little love letters are such an uncomfortable exercise. I don’t have time to edit (let alone revise) these things if I am to get them in the mail by day’s end. But suicide notes? Man, you got all the time in the world to rewrite those punch lines–until you punch your own clock, of course.
But I couldn’t ever go through with it, because I wasn’t ever through with it, dig? I must have composed hundreds of suicide letters, and each one stated a different reason, a different scapegoat, a different determining factor for why I simply couldn’t go on. Except I couldn’t ever really get it just right– and if there was one thing that terrified me more than living, it was going out on an imperfect note.
So I’d always burn the note and get to work on another. And the funny thing was, by the time I was done with the next one, I had completely forgotten about the reasons for the last one.
Because the reasons, oddly enough, were whatever I was going through at the time. So I rewrote and revised and romanticised novels and novels of suicide notes that would never reach a wider audience.*
Suicide: How fucking radical can you get, really? It’s the most poetic middle finger imaginable.
Or so I thought.** I’m sure we’ll get to all of my little slam danse macabres in due time, though, because the world isn’t ending, in spite of my best efforts, and there will likely be time enough for all that.
</3 Sir Rateval Hurtlinge
P.S. One suicide method that I never attempted, in spite of its symbolic, aesthetic, and romantic appeal, was stabbing myself through the heart. Because I’d be damned if I relegated myself to playing Eliott Smith’s understudy, understand?
**Turns out I was dead wrong. Oh, I bet you’re just dying of laughter over there. Now I’m just beating a dead horse.