The reason it’s illegal for anyone to kill themselves, is to prevent a slippery slope.

It’s kinda like abortion. It used to be that abortion was totally illegal. Then they said, we’ll allow abortion to protect the health of the mother. Then they said, we’ll also allow abortion in cases of rape or incest.

Next thing you knew, abortion was available in every situation, and millions of women were getting abortions. It turned out, if you allow abortion in any situation at all (e.g. if the kid has Down’s syndrome), then suddenly all women are demanding the right to an abortion if they want one, even if their kid isn’t defective. Once you open the door just a crack, by making one exception, then everyone else wants an exception made for them too.

It’s the same way with suicide. If you let one guy who’s stuck in a wheelchair and totally miserable kill himself, then suddenly everyone else is going to want to be allowed to have suicide rights too. Teenagers who broke up with their girlfriend will want to be allowed to commit suicide, and pretty soon, millions of people will be killing themselves.

So, just like the Catholic Chuch says, “Abortion is always sinful, even if we already know the kid is going to be born brain-damaged,” people also say, “Suicide is always wrong, even if your life seems totally fucked up and not headed for any improvement.” They don’t want to open the door even a crack, to allowing the idea that maybe some people would be better off dead; because once they do that, they’re going to be overwhelmed with people asking for the right to die, and claiming their circumstances would justify suicide.

So what they do, is say, “Everyone’s life is precious, and no one should kill themselves. There’s always hope for everyone,” even though they know that’s not always true. It’s like how the Catholics say, “Every baby is sacred, even if it’s going to be born blind and retarded and half-paralyzed for life and will cost the taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

So it’s basically the same concept as, “The reason I’m not going to share my potato chips with you, is that if I gave one to you, I’d have to give one to everybody else.”

If we gave suicide to one person, we’d have to give it to everybody else.

Basically what’s needed is a form of cryogenics

There are still some people who say, “You’re useful to me.”

What I really need, is a cryogenic chamber that I can just enter when I’m not needed. So for example, let’s suppose you, or my mom, or anyone else in my life, wants to talk about something. I could be unfrozen to respond, and then just go back in the cryogenic chamber the rest of the time, when I’m not needed. This would give me the illusion of being a very useful guy, since all the time that I spend unfrozen, I would be spending on high-value activities.

The kind of predicament I’m in now isn’t an issue with, say, computers, because they don’t mind just sitting at the ready, waiting for commands. They don’t get bored, even if you only use them every so once in awhile. My computer in the living room for the most part does nothing but download database and file system backups once an hour or once a day, respectively, and it has no problem with that.

May as well just download the current state of my brain into a machine that will simulate it; and then switch that simulation off when it’s not needed. Then you can kill my body, because it won’t be needed. And if you want to do me a favor, just delete the computer record too and wipe the drive. According to the shrinks, my mind might be considered some form of dangerous malware.

The only thing is, if I had no downtime at all, I might feel overstimulated, and lack the kind of enthusiasm I normally have for any break in my boredom.

I lose no matter what I do

My mom was suggesting I go to Dr. so-and-so to get some mental health treatment so I won’t be depressed, or whatever it is that’s wrong with my mental state.

Well, you see what this is a setup for. If I say, “No, I don’t want to go,” then it’s my own fault I’m unhappy, because I didn’t cooperate.

If I say, “Okay, I’ll go” and then show up there and tell the doc, “I’m just here so that my mom can’t say that I didn’t at least go through the motions of trying to get help” he can still say, “Well, he didn’t fully cooperate with my program of treatment, so that’s why he’s still depressed.” That too would be my fault.

If, however, I were to actually try to cooperate and do everything I was told, that could potentially go on forever. My mom has been in therapy for decades; one would think she should finally be over whatever happened in her childhood or whatever, but they are still milking her for the $100 per session, or however much they charge, and they will continue doing that for as long as she persists in saying she needs counseling.

One has to wonder, whose fault is it, if she invests that much in treatment and still needs to keep going back for more treatment? Why don’t they either say, “Okay, you’re done with treatment” or “We need to cut you off, because this treatment obviously isn’t working for you, if you need to continue coming back here for decades”?

When I was in physical therapy after breaking my arm, there came a point where the physical therapist said, “You’re done; you don’t need to keep coming back here.” But had the therapy not worked, presumably at some point they would’ve said, “You know, you’re just not making progress, so maybe we should quit.” In fact, that is kinda what happened; I never regained the full range of motion in my arm that I had before, but they knew that wasn’t in the cards, so they didn’t have me keep coming back there.

As long as I remain suicidal, people will say, “You need to continue seeking psych help.” It doesn’t matter whether it proves effective at all; they will still keep saying it. I’ve been on all kinds of psych drugs and I’ve spent at least a couple years in court-ordered counseling. There have been no positive results, that I know of. Yeah, when I was on Ritalin, maybe I found it slightly easier for awhile to focus, but I can obtain the same result by drinking a cup of coffee; it’s just a stimulant.

Anyway, this is just another thing I’m gonna have to resign myself to — people saying, “If you don’t get the psych help you need, it’s your own fault that you feel the way you do.” They are always going to say that same shit, for the rest of my life, unless maybe something happens that actually changed my situation for the better, to where I would actually have a reason to be happier; but I’m 38 and it hasn’t happened, so what do you figure the odds are?

I lose

screenshot-incels.co-2019.04.13-00-19-32

I have no way to prove that what he says isn’t true. I can’t kill myself because my sister can’t help me. She can’t help me because she’s worried my mom would hold it against her if she did. E.g., if I went out to Colorado for her to assist my suicide, my mom would realize my sister had something to do with my death, because there would be no other reason for my dead body to turn up in Colorado rather than Virginia.

Because I’m not able to carry out my suicide, everyone is just going to think I was attention whoring this whole time. There’s nothing I can do about that, and it’s just something I’m gonna have to deal with for the foreseeable future. Oh well.

Hey Tom, does the Beresheet failure show that Israel isn’t serious about spaceflight?

You were saying that as I continue to talk about suicide, and make plans, and begin partially carrying out certain plans, without actually killing myself, it makes people think I’ll never do it.

Well, Israel talked a lot about soft-landing a spacecraft on the moon, but it didn’t happen. What if they launch a Beresheet 2 and that fails also? Will that prove all the more their lack of seriousness? Will it mean that they’re just trying to get attention?

Or will it just show ineptitude on their part, the more they launch that fail?

What about Thomas Edison; when he said he was going to make a working light bulb, and then kept trying different filaments rather than immediately, through a sheer effort of will, pulling out of his ass a filament that wouldn’t burn out after a few minutes, did that show a lack of seriousness?

When people say, “Your problems seem to be of your own making”

It’s possible a lot of times to tell someone the litany of problems you have, and then they’ll comment, “It sounds like your problems are of your own making.”

If you then say, “Yeah, I tend to fuck stuff up a lot. I can’t really help it; I just don’t have very good sense, and I don’t really have the kinds of talents that would enable me to improve my situation,” that’s when they just kinda lose interest and go away. They realize you’re of no use to them, so the conversation is pointless. Yet they also don’t feel any responsibility to get rid of you from being a burden on society. Nor does society itself take on this responsibility.

As a result, we just have more and more losers piling up, because nobody really takes out the trash; it’s like if a bunch of pedestrians saw a cigarette butt by the side of the road, and realized it was useless for anything, and kept walking rather than getting rid of it; and then the road crews saw it too and didn’t consider it within their purview either.

Legalize suicide.

My entonophobia got the better of me

I went out to the woods yesterday to kill myself by terminal dehydration, after having spent a week making preparations. The place I went to is a total wasteland, full of mud, thornbushes, and ticks, and within earshot of a bunch of racket like workmen hammering and buzzsawing, freight trains coming and going, and eighteen-wheelers cruising down the highway. The reason no one has ever built anything on this vacant lot is that our town has no sewers and the ground is too poor to support any more septic tanks.

One of the first problems I noticed I had was that there was really only one place where I could pitch a tent and have much concealment, and it was (1) in the middle of the sun, so that I would bake in the tent on sunny days, and (2) right on top of a stream, so that the whole area became waterlogged whenever it rained. But whatever, beggars can’t be choosy. I figured, “I only have to hang out in this godforsaken shithole maybe 14 or 21 days at the outside.”

A week earlier, I had pitched a tent there, and covered it with a tarp to help keep out the sun and the rain. As the week progressed, I made stealthy trips out there in my camouflage outfit, bringing more and more supplies for the 2-3 weeks I expected I might have to stay out there. I would wait till my mom was at work on the weekdays, and on the weekend would slip out during the morning twilight while she was dozing on the couch, with garbage bags full of clothes, pillows, foam, etc.

I brought like 15 books with me to read, in case I got bored with some of them and needed to switch. And I began keeping a notebook of my thoughts. The weather was breezy at first, which was fine, but then it got so cold last night that I proudly said to myself, “Aha, I came prepared,” and put on a really thick jumpsuit that’s served me well through year after year shoveling and playing in the snow. Somehow, even that, and my coat, and my blanket, and my sleeping bag, weren’t enough to keep me warm. I was like, “What the fuck?!” But I thought to myself, “I may not have good practical sense to think of stuff like bringing a second sleeping bag for warmth, but I’m stoical like a good soldier, and I will tough it out through this. I am a hardened killer, even if the only one I’m killing is myself.”

Then today, the sun came up and it felt nice; but by the afternoon, I realized, “It’s actually uncomfortably hot now,  so I better lift the tarp and open the tent door so the breeze can come in.” So I did that. I was actually glad for the hot weather in a way, because I knew it might speed up my dehydration. I started noticing some creepy-crawling stuff like spiders coming in, but I was like, “Whatever, I don’t care; they’re harmless.”

Then I happened to glance up from my book at the tent door and was like, “Is that a fuckin’ TICK crawling in?!” Sure enough, it was a tick. I hit the tent door to dislodge it, in hopes of knocking it to the tent floor so I could scoop it up with a piece of paper or something and squash it, but it vanished immediately, somewhere inside the tent. I started frantically throwing stuff out of the tent that it might’ve landed on, and then got out and started sorting through it, looking for the tick. I couldn’t find it.

I started spraying 40% DEET all over the place, but was like, “You know what? Night is going to fall, and that tick is just going to wait like a vampire for me to fall asleep. I can’t handle this; I have entonophobia.”

So, I went ahead and grabbed up my books in a garbage bag and headed back to the house, and aborted that suicide vacation.

I just need to find some wilderness area that isn’t tick-infested. But, I’m gonna need help for that. What I’m learning is that accomplishing anything significant in this world tends to require more than one person. Otherwise, it’s easy to fail in one way or another.

If Meshelle were here, she probably could’ve said, “Oh, you just rig up a mosquito net like this, and it’ll keep out the bugs.” Meshelle loves mosquito nets; they use them a lot in the Philippines, and even in the U.S., she never sleeps without one, because they’re like a security blanket for her. She would’ve known how to keep the ticks out. But she’s not here; she preferred to just get a divorce rather than assist my suicide.

My sister is an expert camper, and has spent weeks or months in the wilderness out west, where there aren’t so many ticks. I’m sure she could find a suitable place to do this. She’s probably not going to want to be implicated in helping me die, though.

Maybe I’m just stuck here till my mom dies, at which point I can just die in my air-relatively tick-free house as my leisure. Unless, of course, without her income, this place gets foreclosed upon, and I end up having to live either with roommates or in some group home where I don’t really have privacy to kill myself by that method.

Anyway, I’m tired of these suicide quasi-attempts for awhile. I seem to fuck it up just like I fuck up a lot of other stuff.

EPILOG:

I went out to the campsite this evening to continue removing my stuff from the tent and bringing it back home, and as I was leaving, I saw a tick on the outside of the tent right next to the tent door. Maybe it was even that same tick as before! I tried to hit it with the shears to knock to the ground so I could kill it there, but as soon as I knocked it down, it vanished. That’s the second time today that a tick has gotten away from me. (I just didn’t feel like reaching out and touching it with my fingers if I could kill it some other way, but my alternative method failed.)

It just goes to show, though — they’ll wait in ambush right where you would be entering or leaving. Maybe even if I’d gotten rid of it from the tent, it would’ve latched onto me during the night when I went out for a piss or something. I hate those fuckin’ things.

I was thinking, walking back and forth, dismantling the campsite I set up, maybe I’m just multiplying my chances of getting a tick on me, but at least my home is part of my domain, whereas the woods are the tick’s domain, where he has the advantage; so I’m better off going to bed here than in the woods.