My only friend, The End.
This is the end, my only friend, the end
– The Doors.
No, this doesn’t go out to Chetan Bhagat, and I’m not popping one sleeping pill with every fullstop I add to this text.
I have a different way of living, well in this case, dying. I have always loved smoking a Cuban, and sipping away at an on-the-rocks peg of Chevas Regal, while I write. Or do anything else.
I was short on cash, [no, that’s not a reason I’m saying bye-bye to the world] so I have to make do with vodka and cigarettes today. And No, you can’t kill yourself by sipping vodka and smoking cigarettes while writing. But that’s not all I’m doing.
I have a jar of Benedryl, and a half full (this is a sad text, so I should have said half-empty, but what the fuck, right?) bottle of vodka. Yes... there’s the twist.
But I have a plan B. If I’m still conscious after finishing this text and my jar-bottle combo, I’ll go the old fashioned way. I have always been stuck between choosing the ultra modern or the uniquely classic.
So, here’s my suicide letter to the world. That is, if anyone cares.
Hello World,
I am Sumit Sharma, and I have to tell you this, cuz no-one else would. No actually, no one else could tell you my name cuz no one else knows. I’m that guy who would become famous, but only in his own house, and for a few seconds, and only when something goes wrong. And when it concerns me, it has usually gone wrong terribly, and irreversibly. So I seldom have any comebacks, or excuses. I usually accept my punishments and my boycotts as they come.
I have no regrets at this point of time, but that’s always been the case ever since my dad regretted wasting sperm 9 months before I was born. Yes, I am hopeless, and I know it and I accept it. I have to, it’s not like I have a choice you know. If you’re ugly, its right there… you have to accept it. The truth is shoved in your ass-like-face every morning by your own mirror. Or anyone else’s, doesn’t really matter. It’s the same with me. If you’re hopelessly pathetic, the world is your mirror. Everything you do, or try doing, or suck at doing, shoves the truth back into your fucked up brain. So after 21 years of taking that shit every single day, from every single one of your imaginary peers, (Yes, I have no friends. Yes, not even online.) and the things you bang your empty head into, you kinda get used to it, and you accept it. As I said, you don’t have much of a choice. It’s shoved right into your face.
I have faced reality for 21 years now, and I could have gone further and taken it for the other 2/3rd of my life too. But I think I’ve just taken the wisest decision of my life today. I’m going to end it. Not the decision, my life.
It actually is an attempt at making people notice. I want to voluntarily, and happily end my life, because no one ever has done that I guess. You’re either killed, or you kill yourself being fed up of something you can’t take any longer. Or you die naturally. You may be happy when you die naturally cuz old-age seems really fucked up to me, but I don’t think that’s voluntary. So, my point is… I am doing what no one else has ever done before… Killing myself, and being happy at the same time.
No, I don’t expect Guinness Book of World Records to register my feat, there’s another way people could notice me.
I feel so conducive to attracting rejections, that I’m pretty darn sure Life’ll reject my resignation letter too. But there’s nothing much It can do about it, cuz by the time it rejects it, I won’t be alive, and hence, out of its jurisdiction. Without a valid NOC from life, I guess, my after-death thing… anti-life, or whatever [Death isn’t the opposite of life. Read my previous post for that] will reject me too.
So I’m left hanging at a point, where I can enjoy my half alive-half dead-but-still-not-a-zombie existence. I could then take a print out of this letter, and flaunt it to the world at how cool I am. And maybe then, GBWR will register my feat.
PS: I’m not serious with anything I wrote above in the last 2 paragraphs, it was just an example of how hopelessly pathetic my brain, and my chain of thought is.
Sincerely Fucked Up,
Sumit Sharma.
