You Say Orpah

Start typing should be the directive; or something. Anyway here I am at work as usual with no specific goal other than perhaps to crank out six hundred words of some type of garbage being as how I won't be paid to do it. As is becoming the norm my monthly check is in jeopardy. I sure am glad that it doesn't have anything with being half Jewish ancestrally in the Deep Southern United States. Maybe I'm lucky not to live in the Shallower South wherever that would be. Even better and more fortuitous I am nowhere near the Northeastern portion of the country, I tell myself. Actually I resent being here, always have, always will. Either that or not so much.

Maybe it is all a technological problem that I could at some point be evicted for failure to pay rent. No one gives a rip, that is for sure.

The last statement from my southern fried regional paltry excuse for a financial institution was about as believable as the rest of the manure that has spewed forth from it over the past day or so. The money due me this month from Social Security may be available sometime tonight. This is according to someone I believe I have actually seen in the flesh to the point where I'd recognize her. Five other geniuses were spoken with specifically as a way of delaying the seemingly inevitable BS or whatever it was.

If possible there was even more obtuse idiotic conversation or what passes for this with a Social Security representative. All is not lost though as I received an injection of anti psychotic chemicals today, something I am supposed to trust or just ignore and, you know, commit suicide. I think about the latter option on a daily basis as I have for, oh, roughly the last fifty years or so.

I'd be wealthy beyond belief if I had been paid even a paltry sum for every time I've considered jumping in front of a speeding vehicle the last ten years or so. My cranial contents resemble that of The Floating Opera's protagonist. I did collide with a moving vehicle two decades ago, quite possibly intentionally, although it is a matter for speculation. It did feel like some type of repeated experience as my rib hit the windshield; sadly I was rushed to a hospital and my life was spared.

I definitely see nothing about my existence that warrants continuance. I just happen to have survived long enough that I at least halfway figure that I would resurface after dying and the results won't involve substantial differences of a positive nature.

I briefly had romantic notions about yet another in a series of loves of my life. Now I have convinced myself as to the fallacy and utter falsehood of this mirage.

It seems to me that suicide should be the only real goal in life. After all the universe is expanding and will one day ( can't take more than one twenty four hour time period, right? ) explode.

There may be something about the pressures of wealthy environments and the people who inhabit them that kind of encourages so called suicidal ideation. When I had been in one of the ritziest New Jersey neighborhoods one could imagine for several years all I could think of was ending my life.

The people--mostly guys--I have spoken with who have mentioned suicide or been rumored to have considered it if not unsuccessfully attempted it tend not to come off as innately stupid. They have actually impressed me in the opposite way, in fact. That is not to say they have all been Mensa candidates or anything. Then again I for a time consistently referred to myself as being profoundly retarded. I can only think of one guy who may never leave psychiatric prison who I believe tried to fatally harm himself. He was and is, he said an adopted foster child who's adoptive parents were police officers.