To the guy who messed up my morning commute:

Never mind that you caused freeway traffic to come to a complete standstill. Never mind that hundreds of people, myself included, lost precious hours of our lives in a frustrating, road-rage inducing traffic jam. That’s life in the big city. We’ll get over the lost time.

Forget the dozens of civil servants summoned to clean up all your nasty little bits and body parts off the highway. They get paid to deal with scumbags like you. But before you jumped off of that freeway overpass, did you stop and consider the emotional wreck you would create when you landed on that poor woman’s windshield as she was cruising down the highway at 65 miles per hour?

The lady in question was minding her own business, trying to get to work, and didn’t deserve to have her car mangled up by your nasty little body. Not only will she most likely suffer from post-traumatic stress, she’s going to have to pay the deductible on her auto insurance to get her car fixed.

Why? Because you decided you couldn’t handle life and decided to tell the world "Fuck you" one last time before checking out? You must have been one selfish, self-absorbed prick in life. I’m glad to have never made your acquaintance.

–The Kimchihead

Tags: death · freeway · suicide · traffic jam

That was a real stupid thing you did to your wrist, kid. If you really wanted to kill yourself, you would have run the blade lengthwise inside your forearm. Instead, you cut across the wrist and instead of dying, all you did was make a mess.

Because you’re not on the midnight train to the big sayonara, you must have failed to Google your suicide method of choice. My guess is that you really didn’t want to die. You just wanted a little bit of attention.

I got news for you, kid: not a whole lot of people really care if you check out or not. That’s the cold, hard truth about life. It goes on with or without you.

Yeah, I know you think you’ve got it tough. I ain’t gonna say that you don’t. I’d feel pretty low, too, if my pops was a three-strike loser doing life in the can and my mom was an ex-prostitute junkie with AIDS. But hey, life ain’t fair. The Man Upstairs might have dealt you some shitty cards, but it’s up to you to make the best of them.

If you’re gonna check out, go ahead and check out. Do us all a favor next time and do it right. But if you’re gonna stick around, knock it off with all the drama. Your attention whoring is costing other people time and money.

Tags: blood · google · suicide

He sat in front of his television, watching reruns, holding his grandfather’s old .45 revolver across his lap, thinking of the vicious ex-wife. She had an army of shyster vultures trying to pick away at everything he owned.

I’ll be damed if that lousy bitch gets a fucking dime, he thought, as canned laughter from a ghost television audience mocked him. He pulled on a bottle of cognac, winced as the liquor shot flames down his throat, and continued to glare at the screen in front of him.

After setting down the bottle, he grabbed a remote control and changed the channel several times, settling on a young Jose Feliciano singing “Feliz Navidad.” It failed to give him any holiday cheer. He took another drink of cognac, then put the muzzle of the .45 to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Tags: death · divorce · marriage · suicide

When Little Johnny got grounded, one of his punishments was the suspension of all internet privileges. He could endure exile in his room. But the confiscation of his computer with wireless internet? That was the last straw. The kid had to make his move.

Little Johnny loaded up his paintball guns and found a couple of pocket knives. He placed his weapons on top of his desk, cursing under his breath while he paced around his room. After some consideration, Little Johnny decided that the paintball guns weren’t very menacing–especially in his little 13-year-old hands. He picked up one of his knives and went downstairs to confront his mother.

Johnny’s mother was accustomed to the temper tantrums. She was hopeful that the nine different psych meds the shrink prescribed for Little John would keep him under control. But the pills and eight years of head-shrinking therapy failed the little boy. When her son walked down the stairs yelling, screaming, crying and holding a knife to his own throat, she called the police. Little Johnny, knowing the cops were coming, decided to run away.

Two cops caught up with Johnny a couple of blocks away. He backed into a neighbor’s driveway with the knife to his throat. “Get the fuck away from me or I’ll cut myself!” he demanded.

Two more uniformed patrolmen showed up. One of them retrieved a large shotgun from the trunk of his police car. The distinctive sound of a shotgun being racked momentarily eclipsed the sounds of Johnny’s sobbing and the crackling of police radios. “Tell that guy to put down the shotgun!” Johnny demanded.

“Put down the knife, kid!” ordered one of the patrolmen.

“Tell that dude to put down the shotgun and I’ll consider it,” replied the boy, parroting a line he had heard in a movie.

The cop with the shotgun took position next to a tree and declared, “Beanbag ready!”

Little Johnny, not realizing that the shotgun being aimed at him was loaded with non-lethal ammunition, considered what it would be like to have a hole punched through his tiny little torso. He cringed at the thought of the sidewalk being decorated with his innards.

The little boy knew the jig was up. Unlike his mother, these cops weren’t going to play the game by his rules. He was not in control, and he really didn’t want to die. Little Johnny dropped the knife and put his hands in the air.

Tags: mental illness · police · suicide

By all accounts, he was an amiable fellow. According to the neighbors, he was always there to lend a hand when needed, and was generally well liked. They were all shocked to learn that he hung himself in the garage.

His rent was paid up until the end of the month, which gave the landlord plenty of time to figure out what to do with all of his belongings. But being the practical person that she is, the landlord thought to herself, If I can get that place cleaned out and rented out next week, I’ll get some good unexpected income.

The landlord’s only question to the detective was, “When can I get rid of all his junk?” After all, she didn’t have any time to waste.

Tags: death · police · suicide