ideation

3 am. My body feels like a piece of furniture. Now there’s something terribly unsettling about that. If I had to be an inanimate object, I would rather be a tree instead of a stuffed duffel bag.I can’t remember getting out of my bed today. Although I’m sure I did. I must have done.My back. All day I’ve been hearing it crack as if it wasn’t sure which way it’s supposed to stay. I feel like a duffel bag.My face. A featureless slippery span of flesh. I look awkwardly at my reflection and then I look away. I have no interest in this.I’m trying to imagine the different angles a gun barrel could rest on my head. I realized that the three most overused areas are the temples, the forehead and right into the mouth. The closest thing to a sexual act that you can get. Because if you had the capacity to fuck someone at that moment you wouldn’t be substituting a dick for a gun.But I digress. If everyone’s been shooting just their temples, foreheads and teeth you would start to believe that the cacophony of emotions one felt right at that moment of suicide must have left little room for creativity. How would it feel if you pointed a gun at your eye? At your cheek, gun tip angled upwards? What about directly at your hairline? Why hasn’t anybody ever thought of a Kama Sutra analog for suicide?Do you think suicide is planned? I don’t. What if you carefully planned your suicide? What if I did.If I had a gun I would at least taste it. It just might hold off the intent a little bit longer. Or not.Sometimes I fantasize putting a bullet through my skull and making a giant hole on my face. You would love that, wouldn’t you. Acne gone for good. Crooked teeth, disproportionate nose, not your problem. Suicide over trivial things. A favorite subject by most, but it never really happens.These are the kinds of thoughts that run through my mind nightly.