things to do before you end it all

on reasons to stay alive and my gripe about su*cidal ideation.

tw: elaborate discussion about kicking-the-bucket forcibly.

the last time i was in oregon, i laid, stiff, against a tattered bath towel on the shore of the willamette. stones wedged themselves into my freckles through the rough fabric, leaving smooth imprints against my thong. the river sang a quiet melody in the key of G, but an impatient, brooding melancholy sat on my chest like an impatient child. it was a languorous and muted june, much like it is today, aside from my grating cackle.

“don’t joke like that. it's not funny.”

my ex partner shot a frozen stare at my giggling; their sister, shining like lacquered mahogany, sighed along with the rest of our party: her lanky boyfriend with moles so ominous they should have been examined by dermatologist three summers ago, a carton of frisbee discs with various weed strain titles, and a fat blunt from a shop down the street.

in response to their disappointment, i opened myself to the biting cold of the river and filled my cherry red bikini bottoms with moss. pebbles wedged into the cracks of my body, soaking up my insatiable greed. i have to make a bit out of everything. next time, instead of saying that heat made “me want to hang myself,” i would use a different method— jumping off the golden gate, perhaps. less personal, i thought, as the freshwater melted away my indecency.

sure, offing oneself is a hopeless affair– one that often creates liminal, silent rooms full of eternal pools and endless hallways. a suicidal person’s self loathing, alive or dead, excavates pits deeper than asteroid landings. the people left behind rot, forced to contend with the suffering of their loved one. it is a serious event. but, despite these truths, my inner cynic steers itself toward the belief that violent agony proves that all life is comedy.

i have to make a bit out of everything.

i don’t like to be sincere about the whole ordeal– su*cide that is. a powerful and evil battery is the brain. oxymoronic, too. the pink matter dwells. the gray matter creates incorrigible, raking loops. the stem affirms, reconciles, and forces breath against our will. i find the ability to hold a life-force so sentient and intelligent and painful that it can choose to end itself– to become a dolphin drowning in a vortex of its own making– silly.

writing about wanting to end things also feels self-flagellating, adding to the hilarity. god knows how many reddit threads i’ve read where a teen boy spouts off about how he only possesses the love of his goon-computer. i am not like those boys (and if you’re reading this, you probably aren’t either.) i am privileged. i have beautiful people in my life, all of which would raise hell without our facetime calls. but, alas, being suicidal creates a deeply selfish mindset that is both pitiful and stubborn to put-to-page.

at my previous-worst, i frequented sites that published crime-scenes in their bruised and broken glory. i may have felt like a basement troll, but this tactic often scared me from action. i would lock-in on the bloating– the feces– the color purple. at that time in my life, more than wanting to disappear was my peak womanly concern: would my death face be horrifying? sadistic? or worst of all– ugly?

i am a deeply vain creature with a wretched gall. i’m also a leo, whatever that means. so, when someone like me, or anyone for that matter, would rather be nothing than something– when food becomes bland and the only noise present is the sound of a heart shaking idly by (is it your chest? are you even still here?)– when opportunity feels neither reassuring or hopeful, only tired– when being bruised and covered in shit becomes something to prepare for rather than fear– when everything about it becomes sacrificial, logical, and semi-attractive– they are in danger.

in these moments, many go searching for a stupid little list.

well, what if something has just happened that is sure to ruin my fucking birthday, Guest Submission? i hope reason to live #12524 will surpass this trash, and i guess i will stick around to find out.

people say it’s the small things that count. this advice is lazy. when wretched, gall-filled girls like me go searching for a list of reasons to live, we find things that fall flat: a cup of tea– crisp clean sheets. i don’t know about you, but if a tumblr girl is telling me to submerge myself in the bathwater of loneliness for a cup of sleepytime, i’m grabbing the rope.

these lists are impersonal and bank too much on hope, so i thought i might make you an informal compilation of events that might happen if you stay alive. i cannot promise you a life without pain or even if it’s worth sticking around for them. i can only reassure you that there are funny things out there that do happen and they won’t happen to you if you’re 6 feet under.

(disclaimer: for legal reasons, i will not confirm or deny that these are things that happened to me. what i will say is your chances increase if you are 5’6” and currently getting freaky in portlandia).

you might…

laugh and cry while chatting the 988 hotline: although it feels acutely sad to talk to a human equivalent of an ai chat bot, you romanticize the event enough to feel like it’s worth a damn to write about. you light a candle, swaddle the bathroom floor, and trace your fingers against the linoleum. you watch brenda (or amy, or carson with a background in LGBTQ+) e-serenade you with…

find twin yolked eggs: if you have a mom, she makes you breakfast as you stare into space. waiting for food that has no flavor (not for the talent of your mother– she’s an amazing cook. you are just that depressed,) she exclaims with the excitement of a little girl that her treasure “has two yolks”. you investigate, nose in the air.

she’s not fucking around. there are forces in this world beyond your comprehension.

reconcile with your ex best friend: while face-time chatting with a girl named Blue, you scream into your phone that “things don’t get better.” she attempts to talk you down, but you are inconsolable. you continue to cite your friend-breakup magnum opus that happened when you were 18 and has never since resolved. she can barely get a word in.

“the universe is a silly place” Blue chastises. she is sardonic and strict, but her voice is shaking.

following the hissy fit, you attend an art event in chinatown. and, there she is: your high-school best friend, poised. porcelain. delicate. she wants to talk to you for the first time in 8 years, smiling— gummy and wide— an indication that it is safe to approach. the shoelaces that have held you together for a decade tie themselves in bunny ears and box knots. she looks down at the floor, then back up at you: all at once a living, breathing, everything.

you will try to make your tumbling apologies and resolving tears a sign– chapters finish, life comes to a close with a velvet curtain. but, her laugh– the one you thought you would never again hear, feels too perfect on your eardrums. the story lays too perfect on the tongue. the universe is quite silly, and you will have to give Blue her cookies later.

sit next to a group of pigeons 30,000 feet in the air: you find your seat, 23E, on the alaska airlines flight to PDX. much to your surprise, fate has placed you next to a girl with curls that reach the ceiling. in all your days of flying, you have exclusively shared tin-can air while sandwiched between men that look like they should be on the sex offender registry. as she says “excuse me,” you feel embarrassed for the first time in a while, your legs tucked against the seat– your airport outfit, frumpy and ragged. she scrolls hinge. girls.

like clockwork, a very greasy guy with the stench of a seasoned hiker sits to your left. he wears a windbreaker and a pleasant grin. yes, the universe is a silly place that will always maintain its balance.

you draw your face-mask tightly around your nose. and, although you fall asleep rather quickly, the fever dream that ensues mid-air pulls you into momentary, waking slivers. in the crescents of your gaze, you see that the grease-man is staring at an animal carrier. by the end of the trip, when everyone is grumpy and stinky and ready for baggage claim, the lights illuminate the inside of this basket: three zebra doves. you are amazed by his dedication to vet-check three pigeons round trip from oregon to hawaii. you ask their names: meatball, larry bird, and something else you can’t remember.

conduct a pilgrimage: you have always fantasized about completing the Camino De Santiago when you feel like killing yourself. but, you don’t have the funds to go to Spain nor the stamina to hike 500 miles in 30 days. so, you opt for a trip to oregon state. close enough.

doing so represents a white pilgrimage in your life story (that is, if you are indeed white.) for many years, you felt like being mixed was Ginny & Georgia-corny but these days, you find some solace in the fact that your mother is from the Northwest. if you cannot be at home stewing in your feelings, maybe the crows, ravens, or squirrels will tell you something you couldn’t find in Hawaiʻi. maybe your best friends, Blue and Pluto, will have something to say that might change your mind. you doubt it, but then you see a tiny rodent flying across the electric poles and a yard bunny laying down in tall grass. this shit kinda hits.

receive a free lap dance cuz you're a pretty girl: in the city of roses, you find yourself seated next to a bunch of hipster guys at a strip club. their hair gel becomes erect toward the pole, but the woman in front of them only touches you. she asks you how you are and you answer, honestly. instead of running, she drapes her hands over your shoulders and leads you into a private room. the carpet growls in leopard print. the sleazy red walls pulse to new-wave. you’ve never seen a strip club so clean.

booty-butt-ass-naked in your face, the dancer runs your hands over her waist. the words of the security guards branded your mind: no touching, but you figure she wouldn’t be sticking her face in your tits if she didn’t want to. she asks “what’s your favorite part about me?” with her nautical star tattoos and lip filler. you feel empty. you don’t really want to be there but, you say the first thing that comes to mind in all your politeness.

“your hair.”

her orange strands stand up like they've been electrocuted. she laughs at you, remarking about the power of arctic fox hair dye. you realize that you might as well have said “your personality,” with tape on your glasses and buck-teeth. when she’s done, you help her pick up her tips on both knees like the bitch you are.

meet an Italian: you watched the sopranos once as a child and developed an intense fear of the mob. you have never met an Italian, and hold a general unease toward the pizza/pasta/Al Capone stereotypes you regretfully harbor. you would like to be a good ally to the ItalianX community. you finally get your opportunity when you meet Rosemary, Blue’s friend, for lunch.

she looks like Morticia Adams: cutting winged eyeliner and skin translucent like a deep-sea jelly, her hair the color of death. you try to mask your nervousness, but she senses you (just like you knew an Italian would).

“i get it. we’re a little scary”

find wild cherries: Pluto picks you up for your daily babysitting. they are gentle and talk like rain. when you arrive at their house, they give two options for a walk– a park with tall trees or a street with short, stubby trees. you pick both and even get to ride a playground swing.

as you walk, you tell them about Morticia Adams. they reveal to you that their grandfather was an “Italian accordion player.” you realize the third rule of the universe: Italians are everywhere.

you also find out that wild cherries can grow in the ‘burb. turns out, double stems aren’t just an emoji. that’s all.

take a hot spicy shit because of chili oil, shrimp wontons: Blue makes you eat, even if you don’t want to. she keeps telling you “eating disorder? no. i’m eating dis order” while making you these really awesome shrimp wontons. you haven’t been able to taste food for three weeks but, as you bite into the dish gingerly, you find that your taste has returned. you scarf them down. 5 hours later, the world's craziest diarrhea spell greets you. it comes in waves.

play 2048: while you’re taking a spicy chili-oil-shrimp-shit in your best friend’s father’s bathroom, you will do anything to quell your anxiety. you cannot text the person you want to text, so you download stupid games you remember liking as a child. you lose. badly.

dedicate yourself to playing game advertisements: when you lose, it becomes apparent that the app wants you to pay for a premium subscription. to do so, they force you into playing the world's worst games. farm life– car swap– leggy girls– crazy developments for the app store that never work when you download them. you have nothing to lose anymore, so you take advantage of these moments of advertisement to play them like mini-games. this makes you feel like a fucking baller. you make stacks in farm life. you redecorate the shelter of a homeless woman and her malnourished daughter. you sort green, yellow, blue, and red humanoids into their proper vehicles. all at once and in the span of minute intervals, you have become a successful entrepreneur, valet, and community member. all things that should not kill themselves.

i have to make a bit out of everything. i had many ideas to write about before the cycle hit again. i wanted to yell at everyone about the stupid lilo and stitch movie and the us marines and Addison Rae, but there it is again, that funny feeling, and i have no energy to muster other than to list out funny things that might happen if you straightjacket yourself to america during a time in-need. i guess, as a bonus, i have the energy to say that my favorite song from Addison’s album is, of course:

people don’t like su*cide jokes because they want to appear as if they know what to do in your situation. they don’t. mother tiptoes. father becomes a magic 8 ball, eyes unpredictable and rolling toward signs of wilting. people float away– balloons in still-air– and you miss them. oh how embarrassing it is to be a full grown adult, screaming to your mother that you wish you got SIDS as an infant or that you would give anything to be able to cut your fingers off like baby carrots.

i’m not even sure that the psych wards can solve the root issue of why someone would want to rob themselves of existence (i mean, who doesn't want to take chili-oil-shrimp-wonton-shit in their best friend’s father’s bathroom?) they might separate you from the materials that would make you *kersplat*, but in these moments, the apparatus of suffering must be alchemized by a certain will that many won’t find in-patient.

the dark cloud wanes and waxes over a limp, radioactive body. i am here now, surviving the nuclear fireball and the crumbling buildings and my skin sloughing off like ribeye at a buffet. i don’t have any solutions– just that i’m choosing to stay here. and, since i am doing the heavy lifting i think it's okay to laugh about it. i have to make a bit out of everything. the laughs can keep us around a little longer.

until tomorrow (maybe) xx