Suicide

There is a great debate about whether suicide is a moral weakness or a mental illness. Here’s the answer: We should have sympathy for any man who tries to wring his own neck. Some faultfinders make a flippant judgment about those who practice self-slaughter: the former assume that the latter are simply unable to take the heat, and that’s why they left the kitchen. But my handler and I both have personal experience with this phenomenon, since each of our immediate families slit their wrists. So this is something that haunts both of our pasts: mine and my handler’s. Neither of our childhoods or young-adulthoods were very much fun, because my own uncle Kenny joined the rest of the family and committed suicide, plus my handler’s great granddad tried suicide twice (for the first attempt didn’t take). So he and I are quite enlightened about this issue. 

Therefore, let us tell you: it’s not a laughing matter to jump off a bridge and fall on your sword, like my uncle Kenny once did. What do you know about the momentary sadness that tough men feel? You think it just goes away, without lethal help? You probably don’t know any lessons to teach. You probably never underwent psychotherapy. Or maybe you assume that this lecture is some sort of hoax. What? This is NOT a silly game that we’re playing here. Why would we get all dressed up and speak to audiences in person, if we did not truly feel pity for your downfall. My handler and I understand that your character flaw is controllable only by way of powerful drugs, and none of you are lazy nor unbeautiful.

Who just spoke? I heard someone in the audience say: “Eff this; I’m gonna kill myself NOW.” — Ooh, first, let me reply to you: That wouldn’t be good for your general wellbeing. Let’s say, however, that you answer: “But life gives me the blues.” — Well, I say: Listen up, that’s just bad luck. All this will pass; things can get better. Yet, now let’s say that you answer: “But here’s the checkmate — my father is a pedophile, and he has a tendency to get on my nerves.” — Nevertheless, I tell you: that’s no reason to leave Earth behind and go visit unknown realms. “Yeah, but,” you argue, “ I’m not popular in school.” — I say: Again, that’s only temporary. Don’t be stupid. “But I have really bad acne,” you claim. — Ah, yet consider that you also drive a super nice car. “What do you mean,” you say: “I drive a ’77 Hooptie.” — Mmm, I grant that you have a point; but, don’t do the deed, though. There simply must be something worth living for. 

In conclusion, let us imagine that you shout at me “No, you’re wrong about everything, Bryan: there is no reason to continue my self-imprisonment in this world of Hell; so, this instant, I am escaping!” and then we all hear a gunshot, and someone sitting near you in the audience yells: “Oh my gosh, this fellow just killed himself, for real!” — Then I would need to finish my Suicide Address with an actual self-slain corpse decomposing in the bleechers. Now, if THAT doesn’t prove to you that suicide is inexpedient, then I don’t know what I can say to make you wake the fuck up.