Rich Rameson v. 2

Intro Sketch

Chapter 1:

Figured I should kill myself today. It doesn’t really help that I have this problem. Pesky, little problem. You know, some people have cancer. Some people don’t have legs. Some people lost their minds. Me? Well…. I’m just ugly.

Okay so, I figured that if I’m going to do this that I’ve gotta, like, not make people’s day worse. I mean, it’s definitely going to be unavoidable for some. But, what can you do? You can’t make everybody happy, not even God can. So, I decided to hang myself. It’s the least messy, and ropes were on sale, anyway. I work at Home Depot by the way. Or at least, I used to. They’ll realize.

I have to minimize the number of people that are going to see me too. I don’t want to freak people out for the rest of their lives, particularly my parents. Yeah, I know. I’m 26, but I’m still living with my goddamn parents. They make really nice wonton soup, though, even though we’re Korean. Damn, I should have asked for some last night. Whatever, I’ve had plenty, I guess.

I also don’t want my younger brother walking in on me all ghost-looking either. He doesn’t even know what porn is. God, I hope he doesn’t cry too much. I mean, I made sure my note made it very clear that I’m not actually dying — my soul has simply ascended into another realm filled with awesome powers and whatnot. See? It’ll be alright, at least, for a few years. It’s all about the stories you tell yourself, am I right?

That’s why I parked at the side of the highway. I mean, haven’t you always wondered what in the actual fuck was in those woods? I mean, we see them all the time when we cross states, but we never go inside. It ain’t so bad. Tripped once, but it ain’t so bad.

I just had to time all of this perfectly. I figured I should make best use of my body to help humanity. Because hey, I may hate myself, but I do love people — kind of. How fucking ironic would it be if some neo-nazi gets his life saved because he got my heart or my right arm?

I made sure I was far enough from the nearest ambulance but close enough to the hospital so that my organs would be in juicy condition. Oh, wrong word? Sorry.

I put a giant note on my car saying that it was me and even made a trail with goddamn flour. Yeah, I know. I’m pretty extra. I guess Mrs. Brown was always right. She’d always used to say: “You’re a schemer, Rich. A goddamn schemer.” Okay, maybe she didn’t say goddamn, but she basically did with those crusty lips of hers.

I prepared a noose on the trees first and made sure I positioned the poop-stool just right. Is that what it’s called, by the way? It’s called a poop-stool, right? Anyway, I got the poop-stool just right, not too high and not too low.

And then, I called the police, and this was basically how the conversation went down.

“911. What’s your emergency,” she said.

“Yeah, hi — um — I’m about to kill myself in 37 seconds. Can you send the guys down?”

“Wait — wait. Please. Please, don’t do it.”

“My car is like parked on the side of the highway, like, 5 minutes from Hawk Mountain.”

“Everything will be alright. I promise you.”

I laughed a bit.

“Exactly. You’re so smart, miss. What’s your name by the way?”


“Oh, that’s a nice name. I always liked that name. Love how it’s like two letters off a boy’s name.”

“Please. I’m here to listen — ”

“Well, it was nice talking to you…. Goodbye.”

I threw my phone on the ground, and I put my feet on the poop-stool. Speaking of poop-stools, I wonder what happens to the poop in your body when you die. I’m guessing the undertakers just leave that stuff in there? Wait, doesn’t that mean all dead bodies have poop inside of them? Unless….

Anyway, I put my head through the noose. I closed my eyes and thanked God for gravity. I kicked the poop-stool out the way and counted to ten. I should lose consciousness before I finish counting since I’m blocking the carotid artery. And, well, I should be dead within five minutes. So, I counted.












The fuck?

And yeah, that’s the story of how I survived. I gotta tell you. It was the second-worst day of my life. Or, maybe third-worst. And, one last thing. I figured out a week later why I failed. I got a little desperate and decided to shoot myself in the face. Found a nice little shotgun on eBay. Oh, come on, you little baby. Wipe that horrible expression off your face. Everything’s all good. I’m still ugly as usual. I know, I was surprised too.

It turns out that no matter what I do — I can’t die.

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