Suicides Don't Buy Groceries
My hands shake as I place the pills on the counter. I feel like a woman even considering pills. Real men don’t cry for help, we slash our wrists and swallow poison and shoot ourselves with a lit stick of dynamite between our legs. Because men don’t do it for attention- men do it to die.
The gun is heavier than I ever would have imagined. I should have bought the Glock, because it was lighter. But I didn’t trust a plastic gun then and I don’t know if I do, now. At least I remembered to get the magnum shells. I pick up the gun and I can’t even aim it at the fridge, and I realize I’ll never use it, and I want to cry. No, I’m frustrated, and I really want to shoot the fridge, but the magnum rounds would punch through into the neighbor’s apartment, and she babysits, and since I can’t shoot my own goddamned fridge I want to cry.
And I have no idea where to even get dynamite, but I’m sure it’s hard to get. The rope was easy to find, although choosing the right thickness was tough. Strong enough it won’t break, but thin enough that I can tie it with the instructions I got off the internet. And poison isn’t easy, either. I’d feel, I don’t know, like a faker if I tried to overdose on heroin, like I’m not a rock star or anything so it’s too good for me, or something. Maybe if I’d ever really done drugs, like ever… I mean, every once in a while I sneak some of my mom’s valium or something, and that one time I took some dope so I could cram for my midterm, but heron’s just like, above me. And the only way I could get it is from my brother, and he gets all paranoid and protective whenever I talk to him about drugs.
I’ve been leaving hints. Acting mopey. Sleeping in. And writing depressed stories on my blog. I was beginning to think that no one cared, which only made it worse, until she called me around ten in the morning. And at first she was worried, caring, nurturing. She asked me how I’d been, and what I was up to. I was carrying groceries into the house when she called, and I swore when I dropped a bag with a head of lettuce, carrots and some strawberries. She asked me what was wrong, and when I told her what happened, things changed, and she had to cut the conversation short. She wasn’t being rude, but she was suddenly less sympathetic. And too late I realized what she realized. People who want to die don’t need a whole box of Twinkies. If you’re going to kill yourself you don’t buy a gallon of milk, you buy one of those stupid little sixteen ounce milk “shakes,” because dead people don’t worry about getting fat or spending too much money. I’m such a pathetic idiot.