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May 18, 2009 | by  | in Opinion |
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Suicide and a small boy

I think about suicide on a daily basis. I come from Paraparaumu. It is mandatory there. If it wasn’t then kids down there would stop killing themselves, right? Seriously, how many people from there have killed themselves? Not just the youth suicides that have personally affected me, but what about all of the middle-aged men there as well? How many of my friends killed themselves and then the family and coroner found a way to class the death as an accident? I’ve been to more than a couple of funerals where the eulogists mention the terrible accidents, while I stare out hollowly at whoever has the bad luck to be crammed in the funeral pew next to me. How many people do I know… Oh, hold the fuck on.

Oh it’s you, Small Boy, do you not realise what the time is? Oh, hiding from your parents in the hammock set up at my flat, are we? Do you indeed not need your sleep to function optimally during the day? Mayhap and perchance you do not feel the same throbbing red desperation to just die for a few moments that I, your parents and the Somali family below us both also feel every time we close our eyes, not just on our beds, but every time we even blink. No Small Boy, I’ll not lie to your parents’ faces and tell them where you are. Why? Why aren’t I helping you, the being who makes sure that our own marital beds are a refuge no longer, thanks to your irate cries of emotional trauma at being bedded at what some people (you) claim is an unreasonably early time. Here, let me get you another blanket, it’s cold out at the moment. Oh, yes, I for one acknowledge your lack of a fair deal, mum. And that seven on a school night is too early for the good TV. and that yes, ‘well, daylight savings is dumb then.’ You may ask me why I myself am staying up late tonight? Oh, well, let me tell you. It’s depression week at Salient, and it happens to coincide with the anniversary of one of my friends’ deaths. Yes Small Boy, I am drinking. No, not because I’m sad, because I’ve run out of painkillers and this is a way that will let me get to sleep through the long dry ache that is my tailbone. I’m glad that you’re here now though. You can keep uncle Nic company. Where the fuck do you think you’re going? Oh, your parents are going to miss you, are they? No, I can see your mother watching that copy of Twilight in the window. She often watches it when your father is out late at night, she is having the time of her life. Trust me. Maybe if you’re lucky we’ll watch Pinocchio together. No, Small Boy, I think you’ll find that not only little babies like this Disney classic.

Okay, so, my friend in question moved away from Paraparaumu a while before his suicide, which was one of the reasons why we all thought it was so out of the blue. Apparently, there is often no sign that a person is suicidal as opposed to just depressed, or in fact perfectly normal. You could be suicidal right now and not even know it. Do you feel sad? Oh, you do! Do you want to watch telly? I think Gordon Ramsay is on! He’s yelly! Oh yes he is! He makes people upset. My mate worked in a kitchen for a while, he was just kind of bumming around for a while. He wasn’t a loner, we’d spend similar hours a day on the internet chatting about our lives and sending each other photos. I got closer to him that year because we would be up when other people weren’t. Speak Up! Hospo means you work hours that other humans deplore. Hospo means hospitality, young dude. Like, cooks and waiters, and people who pour drinks of coffee and alcohol. It’s fine work, though you can feel dislocated in your life.

Hmmn, that outraged bellowing means that your mum’s noticed you’re missing. Oh, you’re asleep. Fantastic, a queer male with a stolen child in his house. At least I’m not that drunk. Or am I? Nope. Sweet. Yes, hello, over here! He’s on the couch. No, I wasn’t touching your child, I was just torturing him with tales of my sadness and woe. Look lady, he came to me, and I was just about to call you over but I could see how absorbed you were in Robert Pattinson’s eyes. Did you know that in the last book Kristen Stewart’s character gets super rapidly pregnant and her baby kicks her so hard that she’s paralysed. Apparently, it’s written quite sexually, so, there’s a good chance that the porniness of the filmed will be ramped up in a really specific fetish way. Oh, sorry, spoiler alert. Get your spawn and get the hell off of my porch. I’ll slip him a roofie next time. No! I’m not a paedophile, I’m just really tired, I’m so tired, and you’ve got to be parenting him wrong, have you not watched Super Nanny? Well, maybe take a course in parenting or something. Please, I’m so tired.

Cheers broseph; you were a bit of a dick, but so am I and I miss you. I hope you made the right decision in your life, because ultimately, that’s the only decision people can’t take away from you, unless you’re one of those assisted euthanasia cases, but you weren’t, so I hope it was quick and merciful.

Emissary @ HAPPY Bar, 7.00 20-23 May, tickets at Tickitek

www.TheSando.com

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About the Author ()

Nic Sando is a god amongst men, fifteen fathoms high he be, with strange and wyrd powers at his disposal. Only a fool won't harken his ears to the east when he hears The Sando man stumping his way. http://thesando.com

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