A good suicide
Sometimes I wish I had died at age 21. The long black wall in Washington would have my name to show to all. Things I have done that may be worthy of mention I could count on a single hand with a few fingers left just in case I think of some more.
Sometimes I want to walk out into the ocean and be drowned under the sea. It wouldn’t be a waste at all if some big fish would eat me and then fertilize the bottom of the bay with what his body didn’t need.
Sometimes I want to dig a hole by one of Pickerel’s big oak trees. I would lie on the bottom of the pit and pull the dirt down over me. I’d have to do it without Pickerel seeing me because he might feel that Donald fertilizer would kill almost any of his trees.
I guess there’s a million ways to meet your maker if you wish, some good, some others not so good. When I think about all the soldiers, some young and some old like me who will die every day, I wonder how many will use their own hand to help the process along. Since it’s against the law and they don’t want to go to jail, they won’t share intent with me.
If I did it today, I think it would be a waste of a good suicide because nothing would come to gain. Today, I had a good idea while cutting wood for Duc. I wish that it would work, but it’s kind of a crazy long stretch. Instead of walking into the ocean and drowning under the sea, or instead of jumping in a hole to pull dirt in over me, let me die on Arab soil so in return one soldier could go home instead of me.
Think of all those Arabs who are as mad as a shaken hive of bees because we steal their oil and piss all over their religion and families. They want the death of Americans to satisfy their anger. I don’t think anything else will do, so someone has to die. Maybe a pile of dead Americans will someday be enough and I don’t think God really cares just how we end up in our grave – he has too much else to think about.
So, if I could go over there (they’d have to pay my airfare because I don’t have it to spare) and lay down on a stage in front of their death camera, they could kill me like a big fat pig. When I’m dead upon the Arab soil with my head upon a stick, one American soldier that doesn’t want to die can go home to his mother and promise her grandkids.
I know there are many, many men who feel the same as me, so if we could get together and go over wet, then sandy seas maybe, just maybe, we would satisfy Arab anger enough to see a new era of peace. All the soldiers on both sides who want to live can make babies with their lovers and turn weapons into plows to plant a new, fresh garden of delight.
Me, I’ll be somewhere else with 40 virgins, as intended. They are mine to claim, not for kissing, not for sex, but to dance around in circles in joyful celebration of the end of the crusades of a thousand years. When God sees the 40 virgins he will know the killing is over and that I, well, I am in my grave.