If I were forced to commit suicide, I wouldn’t do something extravagant like jump off a bridge or throw myself off a cliff. Instead, I’d probably just stay at home and use my gas oven. Because it’s not very tall and I bet I’d survive the fall.
It would take a lot of guts to stab yourself to death with a butcher knife. But not as much guts as it would take to drown yourself in a bathtub filled with human guts.
I read in the paper that this one lady won a Dodge Neon on a game show, and then later used it to inhale exhaust fumes and died. If I won a Dodge Neon, I probably would too.
I think suicide should be legal. Not because I’m morally in favor of it, but because I’m sick of all these dead corpses clogging up our prison system.
The Suicide Machines was a ska-punk band from Detroit, Michigan. It was also an invention that got me kicked out of the 8th-grade science fair.
If I ever ended up committing suicide, I wouldn’t leave a note telling everyone why I did it. Instead, I’d leave a wallet full of money, an empty pack of cigarettes and a conspicuous orange stain on the carpet. Because everyone loves a good murder mystery.
I’ve heard that, in the face of impending defeat, soldiers fall on their swords to “die a noble death.” I think a nobler thing would be to just give the sword to me so I can use it to slice cantaloupes and impress chicks.
I think people who cut their wrists are just looking for attention. That, or tendons.