Meet Sylvia

The first time I attempted suicide was at the age of seven. This teacher, this complete bastard who I only ever knew by his last name (mr. Morris, I think) had told me I was fat and stupid. So I found a knife somewhere and cut myself. It's weird, I don't really think I knew what suicide meant at that time, it was just some stupid shit I'd seen at some TV show or other. Luckily, said stupid show had shown the girl slash across her wrist, rather than along the vein, which I know now is the sensible thing to do if you want to kill yourself (I've since discovered a passion for the subject, obviously).

Anyway, to get back at the teacher I accused him of attempting to rape me, which, under the circumstances, people immediately believed. Why else would a seven-year-old try to off herself, right? Of course, it didn't stick, but at least the prick never got to work as a teacher again. Looking back, I'll admit it was maybe a bit harsh, but then again he was a major asshole, and thus it can be seen as a service to humanity, of sorts. I mean, seriously, you just don't tell an overweight, somewhat slow seven year old girl that she's fat and stupid. The whole thing, the accusation, was my older sisters idea, by the way. She was beautiful, twice my age at the time. I've since outlived her, but I guess I'll be getting to that in a minute.

I don't think that's where my obsession with suicide started, though. At least I didn't try it again until I was about 13. If you thought the Morris incident was the last of my weight and intelligence being the object of mockery, then you would be wrong. I heard it every day for six fucking years. One day I just had enough, friendless as I was at the time. I had the house to myself for a weekend, and (somewhat embarrassingly) I lighted a ton of candles in the bathroom and tried to drown myself. Now, you're probably picturing a bunch of pills lying on the floor, or an empty bottle or bag of weed or something. But no, I tried to hold my head under water and breathe. Didn't work. I told you it was embarrassing, but give me a break, I was just a clueless kid back then.

Instead of trying again, I decided to go anorexic. Worked a charm. Almost killed me though, so I guess that could be labeled as attempt number three? Doesn't really matter, I'm still alive, after all. I tried improving my grades, as well. I did feel better about myself for a while, got some friends. And then - do you fucking believe it? My stupid sister, who I'd adored all my life, who'd always protected me, who was the perfect picture of mental health, goes and offs herself. I mean, I'd tried this shit three times already, without success, and she gets it right the first time? Still pisses me off. I probably don't need to tell you this, but the whole thing left me just a bit unstable.

I took a boy to get me going again, though. He was actually a real bitch, but I puppy loved him like some pathetic cartoon character. I only talked to him the one time, he crushed me completely, and I ended up on this tall fucking bridge. Broke both my legs, but survived, yet again. In the hospital I got a lot of time to think. You're probably rolling your eyes at this, but the whole ordeal actually taught me a lot about love, and how sceptical you have to be when dealing with it. During those few weeks I changed a bit, became less shy (or possibly just a bit more reckless, but I guess that's the same thing, really). I started working out a lot also, even after my legs had recuperated. I've always been a bit vengeful, and if my sister'd been alive she'd probably come up with something cruel and sneaky (she was lovely that way). But me, I just wanted to beat the shit out of the little bitchboy. I did, eventually, and accidentally made him a cripple. Yeah, accidentally, I swear! Made me feel good at the time, though.

This was the first time someone connected my dots, by the way. Made me go to therapy and all that fucking jazz. So, you're not my first, sorry. Anyway, despite all the commotion, I felt better about myself than ever before. I was even beginning to like life a little. So, you're probably wondering, like, why does she do this, why does she still want to end it all, right? After all, I've a dozen or so attempts to my name since then. The truth is, I don't want to, right? I just want to, you know - . You know?

The thing is, every time I've tried to kill myself, it's changed me. I've become a better person. More sure of myself, more self-aware. And that's why I do it. It's a way of self-improvement, kind of. Probably some sort of addiction as well, I don't know. But now, you know, my life is good. I love life right now. I want to stop, but I can't. I want to stop because one day I'll make it, I'll actually succeed at it, yeah? And I don't want to. Not anymore.

A Design for RL

Being a teacher is like being a GM in the MMO of Life. Everyone started out as newbs, barely knowing the EULA, and then one day we hit the endgame and got bored. Of course, a lot of people didn't, they'll probably keep raiding and PVPing until they die. But for some of us, there was rekindled interest when we were given the opportunity to oversee fresh n00bs, struggling to level up. So some made alts, because there's been a lot of content patches, bugfixes and expansions since the last time we played. Others are holding out because we remember what a chore it sometimes could be. Those of us are not all that excited about the prospect of watching our chi.. 'scuse me, our alts, go through that endless, meaningless grind of Life. The idea of following them DING!ing their way through levels, defeating mobs and collecting loot as they go, is alluring enough, surely. But we know that it'll occupy and eradicate our own spare time, leaving no time for all those single-player games collecting dust on our shelves. And so I, at least, am content just to watch, and hopefully sometimes guide, with no strings attached.

I just wish I could turn off general chat. That's one area where art actually pwns life.

Meet Marvin

A sunny day in august it suddenly hit Marvin: He wasn’t fighting lazyness or indifference. His real problem was a subconscious desire to self-destruct. He always paid his bills too late, even though he considered himself a punctual guy. He wasn’t a wrist-cutter either, yet every time he chopped his precious tomatoes he stared a good long while at the knife, transfixed. Every single night, as he immersed his face in the basin water, he fantasized of raising his head to see the darkened outline of a serial killer behind him in the mirror.

Suicide, naturally, was not an option. He knew he was imploding, gradually, that he just had to wait for insanity, or something else entirely, to set in. It could take years, the thought of which completely exhausted him. In the meantime, his entire purpose of existence was simply passing time. Getting a job, paying the bills (even if he never did it on time) was simply a result of his ever-diminishing sense of self-preservation, as well as his inexplicable need to calm everyone around him. The effect was astounding. Even if he stated his general infuriation with life every other time he spoke with someone, his family and friends were completely hypnotized by him seemingly contributing to society three times a week by pushing paper in the company of liars like himself. Work also served as a sort of smokescreen, a way to sometimes fool himself into believing he could make it through, survive existence unscathed. But the illusion always faltered, since it failed to provide any sort of long-term satisfaction. Like everything else occupying his drained mind, the pleasure he gained from structure was short-lived.

Despite all of his undirected hatred, though, he didn’t really have any problems getting through most days. He was easily distracted, which meant he counted on TV every weekday afternoon, and obscene amounts of alcohol every weekend. Of course, his newfound realization could possibly upset this fragile balance. Previously, on his life, he had considered his negative impulses perfectly compatible with a relatively normal lifestyle. He’d never been at odds with himself, or so he had always assumed. Self-destruction, self-hatred manifested, was simply unacceptable. Apathy, laziness; these things he could fight, and he tried to, every single day. How could he combat himself? If every action he took was subconsiously meant to hinder his own happiness, how could he reconcile this with taking any action at all? If his actual purpose in life was to undermine his own ambition, how could he justify having ambitions at all? How would he separate the things that would serve his stated goal of survival, and those self-delusions designed to endorse his own misery? He wasn’t simply killing time anymore, his prey, it had finally become clear, was his own self-respect and fragile state of contentment. It was a mess.

After a long, good think, Marvin decided to not do anything that might be a hidden move by his subconscious to subvert his being again. So he quit his job, stopped paying his bills and decided to never leave his apartment again. He would be damned if he would let himself ruin his life.