My Dream Date With Mr. Suicide

I dream of a suicide by sniper. In the end, that would be my preferred method of ending it all. One well-placed shot from out of nowhere placed there by someone else.

My suicide would inhabit the form of one of those pale-eyed Swat guys who take out school shooters holding classrooms of 3rd graders hostage.

Or an ex-military type trained to liquidate a terrorist chieftain across a thousand yards of desert.

We’d arrange it all contractually beforehand. Agree to the terms of a Quality-of-Life Checklist. This list could double as a kind of suicide note. Too old. Too tired. Too sick. Too unattractive. Too depressed. Too poor. When I’ve slipped beneath a certain threshold of a life worth living, fallen beneath my own minimum standards past the point of no return, that’ll be it.

No more dilly-dallying, no more to be or not to be.

No awkward fooling around with firearms, razors, bathrobe belts, no guesstimating pill doses. No embarrassing messes, crashed Toyotas, no sheepish recoveries. No pathetically frantic last minute 911 calls. No stomach pumps.

Death will come. Clean. Fast. Automatic. Expertly. And, most importantly, from out of nowhere.

We are all supposed to have a Guardian Angel. Mine will be armed with a Barrett M-82. Your Guardian Angel keeps your soul safe. Mine will instantaneously blow my cerebrum out of my forehead.

Best of all, I’ll never see my suicide coming. That’s essential. By the time it happens, it will all be out of my hands. This will have a paradoxical counter-suicidal incentive built in that should to some degree alleviate the concerns and predictable objections from the always vociferous anti-suicide crowd.

It will actually incentivize me to put forth some honest effort into staying alive for a change, put an end to my constant bitching and bellyaching, and inspire me to be at least superficially cheerful instead of my usual sour, dour, living-under-a-perpetual-black cloud demeanor.

What’s more, I’ll no longer be able to use my depression and suicidal ideation as a crutch, a toothless tiresome threat, a hammer I hold over the heads of friends and family, or the played-out subject of all my sad-sack poetry, making everyone around me as miserable as I am.

Instead my suicide will be literally a living breathing reality watching my every step waiting for a stumble—an armed and lethal entity that even I will have cause to fear unless I’ve truly—no more bullshit now—given up.

In fact, my sniper won’t watch me every single moment. That would be impossible–and to expect him to spend every waking second devoted entirely to my observation alone would be insufferably and oh-so-typically self-centered.

I am not the fucking center of the universe, the bulls-eye of every target. I know that now. We both know that. Suicide isn’t monogamous. He plays the field. He has other clients to watch over. He will check in on me occasionally but I’ll never know when he’s watching or from where so I’ll always have to be on my toes. I’ll want to look and act my best at all times, just in case. This alone will immediately improve my life by about 200 percent.

One might think that having death always looking over your shoulder like this would be unnerving and make it impossible to enjoy life at all thus leading one a trembling wreck right back to suicide—a self-fulfilling prophecy. But would it really be so different than it is now when a stroke or a bus or a few bad cells can do you in at any given moment?

The way it is now the doom that always threatens us is too abstract, too commonplace and therefore easily brushed off, too easy to forget to give us the kick in the ass we really need. By contrast, my death will be a living, merciless, flesh-and-blood stalker. A bona-fide killer. If for no one else but him, I’ll try my best to be a sexier, happier, more alive version of my real self–or at least I’ll force myself to appear that way. Happiness will be my camouflage–a camouflage I won’t be able to take off, not even in the shower for fear of losing my life to a trick shot through that tiny bathroom window. If I can’t manage to at least fake it, well, we’ve both already agreed that I’d be better off dead. It’s all right there in writing.

I can feel my heart quicken just thinking about my personal assassin watching me from the blinding window glare of a skyscraper, from somewhere inside a crowded concert arena, from a grassy knoll, or the darkened apartment across the street.

I’ll never be out of range of his telescopic sight.

I can feel my heart beating in his cross-hairs. Feel him tickling the small curling hairs at the base of my skull as he lines up his kill shot.

I grow damp between the legs just thinking about him watching my every move.

For him, I dress in heels and a short flirty skirt.

For him, I freshen my lipstick.

For him, I toss my hair and smile seemingly into empty space for no good reason at all.

For him, I walk on the sunny side of the street whether there’s any goddamn sun or not.

It’s a miracle. I’m suddenly tingling all over with the magic of life!

I’m positively glowing.

Somewhere he’s easing his finger off the trigger and raising his pale narrowed eye from the scope.

Not yet, I pray. Not yet Not yet.

Oh, my sniper, my cupid, my suicide, my love!

[Editor’s note: This piece was inspired by our solicitation of readers’ suicide fantasies. If you’d like to share the intimate details of your suicidal ideation, hit us up on twitter or facebook, or send us an email.