Life…remodeled

Hanging around in the cloud…

About Life…remodeled

I lay awake at night trying to figure out how to exit the mortal coil as painlessly as possible.  It may take a blast of pain to escape constant grinding discomfort.  And I can’t tell anyone that I lay in bed and plot my own demise.  That sets the wrong things in motion.  The idea is to not spend all the money on doctors and medical crap in the most overpriced, fucked up medical system ever devised, all without being insured.  I am tempted to set a date, the way I did when I quit smoking, pick a day and commit to it.  Now that would be a secret to keep, and goal to stick to, eh? But the medical industry will not get their hands on me or what little money we still have so it’s a win, given the set of choices I have.  I do believe I will be ready to do it when I can’t get to the bathroom unassisted.  That is the cut off, the last day.

So I’m telling the nonexistent reader here, aka nobody at all.  But it’s good to write it, almost as good as telling someone really.   I’ve toyed with jumping off a high bridge or cliff.  But my knees are so bad, I don’t think I could physically do it.  I could just fall forward or backward, but not actually jump.  Or I could use the 9mm with the nasty little starpoints.  Not that many women stick a pistol in their mouth and pull the trigger, making careful aim to blow out the back of the head so one dies quickly, hopefully instantly.  It would make such a horrible mess.  Perhaps that’s why women don’t do it that way, because part of keeping stuff clean is not making horrible messes in the first place.  Most men don’t consider such things.  Horrible messes?  The wife will be along to clean it up, or they will just wallow in the mess, as if they don’t even notice it.  Men can be blind to filth and so many things.  Mine can’t see that I’m planning my own demise.  But he’s an only child and pretty much focused on his own shit.

So maybe not the pistol and the mess.  Perhaps I could take about 25 hydrocodones and wash them down with a big glass of high octane rum or vodka.  I’d want to pass out before I puke.  Puking has ruined many ODs, from what I’ve heard.  It’s the body’s defense for poisoning.  So the initial intake has to get in the system quickly.  First drink a little of the hooch and get up more nerve, then the pills, then the rest of the hooch and wait for the bottom to fall out.  The worst thing to happen would be to survive.  Or have the spins and not quite pass out, then survive.  Gotta take a lot of those pills.  I’ll have to check online to see what a fatal dose is.  Maybe I’ll need to take forty pills.  I’m just nipping over to Google to check on hydrocodone’s specs.  Be right back.

Oh yeah.  Twenty will be plenty and I won’t even need the alcohol except for courage.  And I don’t think I’ll try this at home.  I’ll want to drive somewhere, maybe some crappy little town in Idaho, get a cheap hotel, and let some maid find me.

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