By driving something as elementary as shoe lace up her gut, she was literally begging for death. What a drag, seriously! I, of all people; and when said of all people, I don’t scorn death - its just that I give a fuck; swore it no end. With a head duplicating the dimensions of an uncut pea, she considered suicide as her only rationale of reckoning.
Its ironical you start writing publicly with the birth entry on your blog paying tribute to the worst prequel to death - suicide. But a man is a product of his surroundings. And when the left column on page 2 of your newspaper blissfully bookmarks ‘Man kills self’ as an everyday favourite caption, your conscience -despite giving a damn- feels a scratch.
When I die, I will die! There will not be a rebirth, there will not be redemption. My skin will perish, my lungs will soil. That is it. To embrace death when it comes is upright, to fight death when it comes is courage but to volunteer for it is like shitting up your ass and exploding your spine because you didn’t know how to flush the commode. Its dumb!
Its nothing to do with sanity when I hate death reasonably. And hence, it surpasses my comprehension- why would the chick kill herself with a lame shoe lace, rather put, the lame chick kill herself with a shoe lace. Clearly, there is something I fail to understand. To me, I don’t need to love Pepsi to hate Sprite. Correspondingly, I don’t need to love my life to hate death. So why did the chick have to love death to hate life? Fairly equitable.
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