Killing Myself To Live

Oftentimes I straight-up want to die. Why is that? I have a good life, a woman who loves me, a family who pays for my cell phone and even my groceries, more times than I'd ordinarily like to admit.

I guess I've learned by this point it's just a mental thing (wow, good job Joe, you only majored in Psychology and worked in a suicide prevention lab). Nothing more or less, which is nice. It's like a foot or a spleen -- something to be loved and taken care of. Not that I'd like nurture suicidality and encourage it, but just to be all "Hey, brain, you're cool, so let's see what this signal means and then take care of it in a decent way."

Encouragingly, I'm getting better at that. Who cares? Maybe you! Maybe not -- perhaps you're all like, "What a shit-baby. Suck it up, toots." As a response to this hypothetical, I'd like to say, "Go fuck yourself with a rake and call your grandma and tell her you love her."

Suicide! Talk about it more -- it will probably only help. Then maybe you'll have energy to dance.