Snuff It #3

My Suicide Watch

by Bob Baden

I guess that it was around the fifth grade that I began to speculate about my death. That is not to say that I was a morbid child, though I was, but it was the reigning dawn of disco and Charlie's Angels was the social moniker by which we all judged ourselves, so it can be said that my thoughts of death were warranted, if not common.

I became obsessed with my death. When would I die? How? Would it be messy, or even better, painful? And what would I wear? Even at that premature time in my life I realized one thing about my death; I wanted to have control over it. So as I became increasingly bored with the rigors of the fifth grade (passing notes, laughing at farts, and asking friends to ask the boy that I liked if he liked me), I began to spend more and more time planning and preparing for my death.

I chose suicide as a means of absolute control.

Suicide. How would I achieve this goal? I had read countless stories of those before me who had taken the plunge, some successfully, others not. I weighed my options. I could jump from a bridge, except that most people survive, spending the rest of their lives as paraplegics. I wanted death, not inconvenience. I could take a handful of pills and wash it all down with the grandeur of Garland, but Studio 54 was still popular, hence I assessed that there might be a shortage of resources. I considered putting my head in the oven, but ultimately I would just get nauseous and be forced to interrupt my goal in order to obtain a tummy elixir. And of course the whole shotgun-to-the-head thing really hadn't become popular yet, so I figured it best not to venture into unchartered waters. Death may only be death, but it must have style; preferably a trendy and attractive style.

Then the priest from my church suggested that I take up smoking cigarettes. It had many rewards, both short term and long. Initially I could anticipate lung cookies, rapidly wrinkling skin, and a nagging, early morning hack. Not to mention the stink! The added benefit was, of course, the ostracizing and alienation. I could become a legal junkie and flaunt it proudly in the faces of all my peers, family, and associates--none of which would ever dine with me again. Cool. I reconciled the length of time that it would take to actually die by admitting to myself that, after all, I was a procrastinate at heart. (There should always be confessions towards the end).

The following Monday I consulted with my friends and decided that unfiltered Camels would be the most effective method with which to do my dirty work. I literally couldn't wait until some teacher or such asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, so that I could simply respond "Dead". And with that I lifted $1.70 from my mother's purse and procured my tool.

It was around the seventh grade, and still not dead yet, that I took up drinking beer to accelerate the process. The rewards were a surprise. Not only was I smoking an allegedly lethal substance, but now I was also belligerent about the fact. What could have been better?

About the time that I started college, and still not dead yet, I started smoking pot and taking drugs by the handful. This truly moved things along. I rarely ate, and subsequently lost weight, got sickly often, and developed a sincere admiration for paranoia. Finally, some concrete payback. That A.M. hack was one thing but bronchitis was the icing. Literally.

Well I'm 32 now, and still not dead, but that's OK (for now). In the last lap of my race to deterioration, I'm dabbling with blatant avoidance of financial responsibility coupled with sleep deprivation. My own little personal buffet spread of pain. Nifty. But it's working!

Happy Death, my fellow parishioners.

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