ive decided that ill commit suicide only on three events:
1. my thirtieth birthday, and istill ihavent fooled the gurl im supposed to spend forever with
2. my mother's death
3. when igo blind




nylon cords are my favorite metaphors for the act of permanently outwitting Life. i, however, am not that poetic to have my witnesses watch me pendulum in the air in sync with my heartbeat

the consolation would be the non-CG disturbing effects of the scene, ensuring talks around the neighborhood for long after the funeral. the cost of that however, would be suffocation (and humiliation, with my tongue comically dangling outside my lips like a male genetalia) for about thirty seconds, suffering that not even the promise of life after death could fool me into agreeing




in my sleep iam going to die. painlessly. its spineless, but if ever The Big Guy above starts laughing out maniacally (see three conditions above), ill see to it that iwont be His laughingstock in any way



(the culprit of a bangungot or "lamentation in lala-land" is a person's heavy meal minutes before a bedroom romp. papasam denies this, but something ive read makes me confident enough to be credible. the gist: the pancreas is right behind the stomach. stomach tries to digest the heavy meal. stupid person yawns and horizontally goes to sleep. heavy meal slides down stomach's sides. stomach gets bloated on the side and squashes pancreas. acids ooze out of poor, pissed pancreas. the acids apparently are fatal outside mr. pancreas, thus the manananggals, tianaks or exgurlfriends in stupid person's last nightmare)


(a drawback however will be the corny headlines for the next day: "boy dies from heavy meal; suicide letter in hands")


maybe ill just sample enough sleeping pills to suffice me atleast twenty thousand years in bed. or maybe just a nap in somebody's car







being suicidal apparently isnt synonymous with being gothic: "my soul tingles with your promises of love, the way leaves dance with the whispers of the dead night.. kiss me, oh my sweet salvation, no more of your finger's lovely spite down my wrists please; iwant you now, those cold and piercing lips of yours, oh kiss me, my love."

translation: UGH. iactually dig many things of pure darkness- the clothes, accessories, the artwork, even the gurls. just not their fascination for Reaper's kikay kit


ihad a party-animal classmate in Highschool who showed up one day wearing a wristband made up of bandages. asked what happened, she admitted to slashing her pulse with a pencil sharpener. yes, no reaction more appropriate than whatthehell. interestingly, the last ive heard of her, she goes clubbing with black pendants, black fishnet stockings and black eyebags already. yes, whatthehell







my death: painless, drama-free and sweet


understandably, euthanasia is something iam a supporter of, especially if itd be me whose going to be strapped on those vegetable-support apparatuses


really. idont know how the dim-witted rightists of the Sanctity of Life still manage the old "only God has the right to take away somebody" shit. for me, the sanctity would be saving someone from a reclusion perpetua in his bed with his lungs sounding like darth vader's. being a thinking lettuce doesnt mean that youre living the life of a lettuce no more


yes. iloved "Just Like Heaven" too but im talking about those homo vegetables that suffer a 24/7 view of their ceilings because "only God has the right to take away somebody."


same reason why there wouldnt be any Tuesdays With Arvee in the future







medical chuva claims that a bullet through the temple is an ideal way to court painless death. the speed of the nerve cells in transporting the message of pain from the skin to the brain is greatly inferior to the speed that the bullet will travel through the said mass of gray meat. also, the drama effect is outrageous, as this scene's a cliche already of asian horror flicks, hostage takers and mmk episodes


unfortunately, iknow not of a way for me to get a hand over a gun other than that of House of the Dead's. also, being a journalist (and a student at that) doesnt guarantee this highly technical death. extrajudicial killers surely wont find an FHM or a PBA sportswriter interesting enough to waste gunpowder on. even less so when imake it to those organizations only as an applicant. and yes, im supposed to be talking of self-induced coffin-wishing here, so getting shot at is already out of the question and of my drama-free requirements






another method ifound interesting is electrocution. electric chairs were given emphasis. though eerie, the thing actually tickles the user with bolts merciful enough to render permanent unconsciousness in less than a second. in other words, painless as well


ofcourse, the closest id be able to perform such would be by taking a bath with the TV set, like that guy from the US-version of The Ring. it was a creepy scene, terribly, and im not very sure he was dancing in that tub because its the angel's trumpets he's hearing already







id be playing with my own urn anyway if ever no double-digit automobile cared to kiss me within the next 30 years. my mother's fond of singing songs about our family's loyalty to Osteoporosis, and idont see myself being the blacksheep anytime soon. for now, however, ive cross-fingeredly counted of 12 more years in me


igotta badger someone to text me those carpe diem mushinesses right now