Suicide no. 65: All the Time in the…
Image taken from here.
–by Derek Alan Wilkinson
He was a dapper-haircut suit with a fixed smile, plastic that didn’t mend well with the flickering fluorescent drop-ceiling in a room chock full of fast-food-fed lazy asses, looking for the easy and quick answer. Someone to follow, something to change them. Something to change at all. “One more hour,” claimed the seminar, “could change your life.”
If only social anxiety, heroin, and a height deficit didn’t hold me back…. I could make a shit-ton of money selling whatever motivational tools someone thought that they needed to be someone else. I sat through the marketing scheme because I wound up in the wrong room, and thought that this might actually be more entertaining than another AA meeting. “What would you do if you just had one more hour in the day?” he asked his slack jawed audience. I eyeballed the room, surrounded by cattle in need of a trough.
My thoughts wandered. Privatize Social Security. Piss all over the health care system. Find Jesus. Do drugs. Read a self help book. Blow up a school. Do yoga. Take a stray cat to the vet. Rape somebody.
Who knows what a person could do with “just one more hour” in their busy, yet pointless, day?
I know what they’d do. It’s just the same thing that people always do: they’d waste it, just like I would.
Just like I know what I’m going to do at the end of this day.
If only there were more insert something other than time, and you wind up realizing why time doesn’t matter: because we are what we are.
But not today. You can have that extra hour all to yourselves.
I won’t live to be another one of you today.