Next time |
|
Next time I kill myself I'll remember to do it on a full stomach. I'd like to think about the sad fuck in the morgue who has to perform my autopsy. He'll be standing there in a cold metal room surrounded by dishpans full of my vital organs, his hands smeared in my blood. Cutting my GI track he'll stumble across my bloated stomach and as he splits it open with his scalpel he'll catch a whiff of my last meal stuck between my small intestine and my duodenum. Hopefully he'll be some aspiring doctor, a medical student performing an autopsy as part of his training. He'll be tired and bothered, thinking about his next shift, going home, studying, his paycheck. Next time I'll remember to fill myself with all kind of crap, greasy food, chili peppers, beans, sardines, onions, lots of cheese. I'll drink half a fifth of southern comfort, just enough to raise my blood alcohol, but not above the lethal limit. I'll swallow a whole bunch of balloons filled with baking soda and aspirin. Next time a week before I do it I'll poke my arm a whole bunch of times with a dirty hypodermic needle to scar it up. All this just to confuse the sorry fuck who has to perform my autopsy. So he'll make a hasty conclusion and tell my family that I died of a drug overdose, pulmonary edema or something like that. He'll sign the death certificate as a dignitary and get on with his life. Next time I'll leave a sappy poetic and depressed note, leave a lot of metaphors and references, quotes from Hemmingway. So then I'll be generic, but no one will say anything out of decency. I'll write out a will and leave all my money and assets to the CIA with instructions to take out Castro. Then he'll be as cool as that other dead revolutionary whose name also starts with a C.
Next time I kill myself I'll do it right. |