There is a sweet spot between laziness and efficiency. Some call it Zen, some call it Grace, and some accidentally arrive at it through sheer malaise without ever realizing it existed. Dorcas cherished these spaces when she found herself in them, but they were just one more almost great thing that just wasn’t quite enough. As she prepares to pen her suicide letter/will she is amused at making one last foray into that sweet spot. Besides, she has nothing to leave to anyone except her unappreciated art and some personal keepsakes that would most likely be discarded after she was gone, no matter whom she left them to. No reason to draw up two separate documents.
For thirty fours years she has felt smothered by the conformity and mediocrity of the human race. This is no exaggeration. She has literally wondered why to even bother with other people her entire life. Thinking about this, and still partially lightened from her recent ironic amusement, she decides that her final missive is not going to be some boring, average suicide letter/will. It will be her masterpiece. The last piece of mockery and disdain she can conjure for humanity before she excuses herself from its absurdity.
“Dear familiar specimens,” she begins.
“You are probably wondering how a miserable misanthrope like myself could be driven to take their own life? How could such a cynical curmudgeon like yours truly ever even consider suicide, let alone commit it? Why would a perfectly repulsive mass of loathing and contempt for everything feel there was no more reason to continue suffering?”
Sarcasm, check. Passive-aggressive self-deprecation, check.
“The people, really. It was the people. You and everyone else.”
It would be too easy to continue laying blame. To name names and recall painful events. Instead she would leave it at that for now and spend her efforts in pure, unadulterated mockery.
“If I was to have my anus attacked by fire ants for forty years while trapped inside a Taco Bell, it would be slightly better than being part of humanity.”
Perfect! There was a rhythm in that insult that she thought would make a good template to follow for awhile.
“If I had to watch The Jerry Springer Show while trapped in the eyeball contraption from A Clockwork Orange every morning while eating seven pounds of fermented elk cock, I would have more reason to wake up tomorrow than humans have given me up until right now.”
“If I’d had to give birth to twin ungulates once a week while attending a Pet Shop Boys concert where they played Slayer songs on detuned pianos while being fucked by gorillas on meth, I would have found more joy in living than I did from participating in modern civilization.”
Okay, maybe one more, then she’ll switch gears.
“If I had joined a cult that required me to have sex with dead babies while licking a yak’s asshole and listening to books on tape of young adult novels about white supremacist teenagers who are in love with quadriplegic vampires, I would have been more impressed by our species than I could in a million years of the best day I ever lived.”
Dorcas recalled a quote from one her favorite books, ‘Of Ape and Essence’ by Aldous Huxley, and decided to end this section of her suicide letter/will with it.
“The leech’s kiss, the squid’s embrace, the prurient ape’s defiling touch: And do you like the human race? No, not much. – Huxley”
Take that you cruel, unimaginative fear junkies!
“To my parents, who could only ever manage to love some version of me they wish existed, rather than my actual self, I bequeath all of my artwork. May you fail to appreciate my efforts in death as thoroughly as you did while I lived.”
“To my two petty, superficial, Stepford Wife sisters, whose persistent bullying taught me the futility of existence from as far back as I can remember, I bequeath my wardrobe. May you enjoy years of pleasure mocking me for not looking like a Forever 21 mannequin even when I can no longer wear my gift to you.”
Bitterness never tasted so sweet.
“The remainder of my personal belongings should be made available to my nieces and nephews. May they serve as a reminder to disable your reproductive systems with a red hot screwdriver before you can pass our family’s inferior genes and dehumanizing traditions onto yet another generation of superficial nimrods.”
Dorcas read the entire suicide letter/will and thought about what else she should say, if anything, but she kept getting derailed from that train of thought by her own laughter. She was not sure if her prose was funny by any objective standards, but the hyperbolic specificity of her expressed thoughts was the most hilarious thing she had ever encountered. These strings of words she had created formed a feeling that approached satisfaction, or at least what she had always imagined satisfaction might feel like. To have her own experiences sitting in front of her made her feel less alone than she ever had.
Teachers and gallery owners had always given her the same reasoning for rejecting her artwork. It was technically proficient, but lacked soul. It was a reflection of something with no feeling. It had talent, but no voice. The worst part was that she agreed. Her paintings never expressed her own experience, because she did not feel that was something worth expressing. But reading her suicide letter/will made her feel alive. This was her soul. This was her voice. This was something to be reflected. She had just been stuck in the wrong medium all along.
For the first time in her adult life she felt the anticipation of purpose. In some distant corner of her mind a flicker of a chance at some kind of meaning and fulfillment beckoned her to carry on. In the process of ending her life she had discovered a reason to live.
Dorcas would become a writer. She would weave vitriol and scorn at humanity more poetically and potently than any other scribe had ever even begun to imagine. Using nothing but the written word she would expel all the toxicity she had ever absorbed, spewing it right back into the face of the collective farce that had the gall to call itself civilization.
It’s good to be alive, she thought, when you finally know how to say that it isn’t.