I am going to kill myself in 90 days. What else should i say? This post is not a cry for help or even to get attention. It's simply a public record of my last 90 days in existence. I'm not depressed and nothing extremely horrible has lead me to this decision. But, does it really have to? I mean, as an atheist I feel life has no greater purpose. My generation has had no great depression, no great war and our biggest obstacle is beating Halo 3. So, if I feel like saying "game over", why can't I? Anyway, I hope you enjoy my thoughts as the clock runs out. Also, if this is taken down before i'm gone just go to my fropile page. Please don't attempt to "help" me. If you want to truly help, please post ideas on how to do the deed. thx, sane sociopath
by TurncoatWhat's the point of leaving a public record other than to dig for attention? If you really meant it, instead of these theatrics you'd just do it instead of crying for attention or playing pretend for attention.
I bet you won't even do it. Killing yourself is harder than it looks, it takes a warped variant of willpower and perseverance to succeed instead of wuss out at the end. It's a profane form of strength that most people are incapable of doing, and your "90 Days" claim has me believing you aren't "strong" enough for it.
This is like those people who cut themselves to show off. "Oh, I didn't think you'd notice..." as they flex their nonlethal scars.
if you take anything i post on this forum seriously at this point you should kill yourself immediately
What's the point of leaving a public record other than to dig for attention? If you really meant it, instead of these theatrics you'd just do it instead of crying for attention or playing pretend for attention.
I bet you won't even do it. Killing yourself is harder than it looks, it takes a warped variant of willpower and perseverance to succeed instead of wuss out at the end. It's a profane form of strength that most people are incapable of doing, and your "90 Days" claim has me believing you aren't "strong" enough for it.
This is like those people who cut themselves to show off. "Oh, I didn't think you'd notice..." as they flex their nonlethal scars.
Log - Day 1
I awaken. I don't know it at the moment, but this day marks my fourth straight year of existing in the dogscape. I push myself up from the carpet of writhing, twitching dogflesh beneath me and rise to my feet, stretching in the morning sun. It took me a while to learn to balance on the layer of solid dogs that now blankets every inch of solid ground, but nowadays I can walk and run as easily and as fast as I ever did on soil or concrete. Perhaps faster...
This was a city once, I think, though which one I can't remember. I only owe my guess to the massive pillars of dogs jutting into the sky, perhaps ancient buildings now completely filled and overgrown by canine biomatter. I climbed one once, sinking my fingers and toes deep into the dogwall to gain purchase, and after hours and hours of climbing was rewarded with an incredible vista - fur and eyes, panting tongues and wagging tails, hugging the contours of the once-barren land and stretching in a single aeomebic mass farther than the eye can see.
Now I don't do that, though. Now I merely go about my day. I hike to the Gardens, where the dogplants sprout up in bizarre shapes from the floor of the dogscape, and reach up to pluck the fetal puppyfruits right off the wagging, energetic branches. I bite into the succulent flesh, the juices dribbling down my chin and dripping down to be reabsorbed by the groundflesh, and revel in the savory taste. I'm thirsty, so I range until I find one of the Mothermounds, and there I suckle at a teatpatch until I've had my fill of milk. Sometimes I see other humans around me, as well-adapted to the dogscape as I am, but I barely acknowledge them, say nothing. What, after all, is there to say? The world is different now - what meaning would our old words have?
Free-ranging dogs are becoming rarer and rarer to see now, and those I do see seem as lost, as passive as I am. They too graze on the dogplants, step carefully over the undulating, bleeding dogfloor, dimly acknowledge myself and one another. In the distant sky, and on the far horizon, I sometimes see massive forms sail or crawl or undulate, and I wonder if in this new world normal, singular, ambulatory dogs have become as obsolete as I am.
