I love memes too much to kill myself

It’s the middle of the night and I’m desperately trying to get the dog I am watching to eat his dinner. He’s sick and angry at his family for abandoning him for the sunny shores of Cancun. Me too, buddy.

I’m usually pretty reluctant to share any sort of insight to my emotions unless they are in meme format but I’m (for the most part) going to try to get through this entire thing without making a single “Dicks out for Harambe” joke.

Number 1: I want to die. But I don’t want to kill myself. A few years ago I would think about swallowing a whole bottle of Midol over every unfortunate run-in with a pre-teen boy wearing a Hollister sweatshirt that smelled like the puberty-driven love potion that is Axe body spray. But now I don’t feel like I want to slice my wrists open with a box cutter at every “You’re a huge bitch” or “You look like a flaming hot Cheeto that’s been sitting under my bed since my bar mitzvah 7 months ago” I receive. But that doesn’t mean I want to die any less. Now I just feel more of an odd security in the thought that hey, I’m gonna die eventually. Like every depression meme I see is a fuzzy blanket being wrapped around me by all of my other severely depressed, meme-loving internet friends. I find a super weird sense of comfort in making jokes about how bad I want to die that will probably make my future employers uncomfortable but will definitely get clout on Twitter.

Number 2: I’ve been doing a lot of Google searching lately about how I feel. I find a lot of comfort in typing the every waking thought or question that pops into my pea-sized brain into that ominous little search bar. (I should mention that I refuse to see a therapist or seek any sort of mental help outside of the realm of memes and other teenagers that don’t offer any real advice aside from “Oh man that sucks”). Because of this fear of actually getting reliable help, I’ve turned to Google and outdated Yahoo answers forums to look for any sort of viable answer as to why I feel the way I do. So far this has led me to half-assed self diagnosing and ending up watching a weird Youtube video about a goat with 3 legs named Bobo at 2 in the morning. I don’t think this is effective, but it’s way better than trying to explain why I’ve made 212 tweets this past year joking about dying to a middle-aged woman who thinks Pokemon Go has ruined our country and Donald Trump makes some “good points”.

Number 3: While it’s unbearably unhealthy for me to outsource my emotions to html format, it’s kind of what has kept me from killing myself so far. I find tremendous comfort in badly photoshopped pictures of Kim Kardashian’s crying face and DMs from relative strangers. I find a sense of warmth in being able to ask Siri if I’m dissociating or if it’s just the mysterious frat-house concoction I found in a water bottle under my bed at 5:42 AM. While I crave the stability that seeking professional help would give me, for now i’m comfortable sitting here, letting out bits of my emotions in between cute cat pictures and Minion remixes of “Panda” by Desiigner.

I’m not sure what I intend this piece to be but it’s not a call for help or anything dramatic like that. I will probably publish this under a fake name. But I feel like I should scream into the void that is the internet in a more lengthy and somewhat organized fashion than I typically do, because there might be other people out there trying to find a reason to stay alive while perusing Yahoo answers forums circa 2008 too. I don’t have an answer for that though, I don’t know why I haven’t killed myself yet. Maybe it’s because I’m holding out for some type of hope or maybe it’s because I don’t want to fail at suicide and miss out on a whole day’s worth of internet jokes for nothing. Either way, I’ll probably see you tomorrow.