Also to people who are anti-drug because it’s harmful to your body, I’m pretty sure a bullet to the brain or bottles of sleeping pills might hurt your body as well. So fuck It, you want to die anyway might as well smoke weed or pcp and see if that doesn’t give you a little relief. Who cares if you have to depend on a drug to make you happy. That’s better than killing your self.

People say that doing drugs and drinking all the time is bad, but shit… it’s better than killing yourself. It’s a way of killing yourself where at least this way you get something out of it, a new way of thinking, even if it’s just for a moment. You also wake up the next morning. If you smoked some pot every time you felt like offing yourself I guarantee you’d have forgotten why you wanted to, or you would find all the answers to life.

a woman, a 
tire that’s flat, a 
disease, a 
desire: fears in front of you, 
fears that hold so still 
you can study them 
like pieces on a 
it’s not the large things that 
send a man to the 
madhouse. death he’s ready for, or 
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood… 
no, it’s the continuing series of small tragedies 
that send a man to the 
not the death of his love 
but a shoelace that snaps 
with no time left … 
The dread of life 
is that swarm of trivialities 
that can kill quicker than cancer 
and which are always there - 
license plates or taxes 
or expired driver’s license, 
or hiring or firing, 
doing it or having it done to you, or 
roaches or flies or a 
broken hook on a 
screen, or out of gas 
or too much gas, 
the sink’s stopped-up, the landlord’s drunk, 
the president doesn’t care and the governor’s 
light switch broken, mattress like a 
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at 
sears roebuck; 
and the phone bill’s up and the market’s 
and the toilet chain is 
and the light has burned out - 
the hall light, the front light, the back light, 
the inner light; it’s 
darker than hell 
and twice as 
then there’s always crabs and ingrown toenails 
and people who insist they’re 
your friends; 
there’s always that and worse; 
leaky faucet, christ and christmas; 
blue salami, 9 day rains, 
50 cent avocados 
and purple 

or making it 
as a waitress at norm’s on the split shift, 
or as an emptier of 
or as a carwash or a busboy 
or a stealer of old lady’s purses 
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks 
with broken arms at the age of 80. 

2 red lights in your rear view mirror 
and blood in your 
toothache, and $979 for a bridge 
$300 for a gold 
and china and russia and america, and 
long hair and short hair and no 
hair, and beards and no 
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no 
pot, except maybe one to piss in 
and the other one around your 

with each broken shoelace 
out of one hundred broken shoelaces, 
one man, one woman, one 
enters a 

so be careful 
when you 
bend over.

I have this thing where when I stress or get anxiety, get sad etc. my heart physically hurts to a point where my left arm feels numb, I know it’s not normal but I’m scared to go to a doctor… I don’t want them to find something wrong with me.