
.ili.   Devil Shat Twelve   .ili.
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This is Devil Shat Twelve released on 10/23/97. Devil Shat is published by disobey and is protected under all copyright laws. All of the issues are archived at the Disobey website: http://www.disobey.com

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.ili. Contents .ili.
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Suicide and the Web (by Morbus)
The Antique Store (by Morbus)

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.ili. Suicide and the Web .ili.
---------------------------------- by Morbus

Perhaps I am jaded. Perhaps I am stupid. Perhaps I am a contradiction of life. As much as I complain about this life, I could never remove myself. It just isn't within me to be so self destructive as to end it all. This is a very strong standing, and as such, can never be altered. It is not a New Year's Resolution, or a "hmmm, well, what is cool nowadays?". I get annoyed merely thinking about it.

And yes, I used to be disgusted with it, but I would be lying to you if I said I had never contemplated suicide. I have thought about it many times. I have thought about the kick-ass note I would write... I have thought of the way I would go. Hell, I've even picked the words for my tombstone: "Finally... some peace and quiet."

And don't think that this was years ago. No, I do believe I thought about suicide a couple of months ago. Maybe not that bluntly, but to paraphrase Bjork: 'what would my body sound like as I hit the rocks?' or 'would my eyes be opened or closed?'. Merely curious questions inside my head that will never get answered. Most of the time, these thoughts just strengthen my resolve. They increase my disgust for the taking of your own life.

I don't have very high esteem for those who commit suicide. Nor do I like the media having a blast with the life of the committed afterwards. If the person was famous, we hear heartwarming stories about how they were so kind in life and how their death was tragic. Both of the statements are true, but nothing to comment about. We skip over the "consciously killed themselves" part. Merely a black spot on their otherwise perfect life, film at ten.

I've anticipated the type of mail I will get. "My brother committed suicide, you bastard!" There is no pain worse than our own because only our life means that much to us. I will not confess to saying that "I know what it is like". I don't. You have to realize that as much as it may seem so, it is NOT ONLY HAPPENING TO YOU. I have been through a lot too, but I wouldn't compare it to your life. Pain is unique to the bearer.

People should just take life as a game. "I hate what Morbus is saying." Okay, prove that you are better than me. Prove that you can handle your pain better than Morbus can. You wouldn't want to spend your after-belief knowing that you copped out on life while I'm still down here chuckling at you?

"I've tried committing suicide twice, Morbus! You have no clue what it is like!" Stop trying to get attention, okay? It is not hard to kill yourself. Buy a gun, pull a Cobain or a Hemingway. Or go to your local Circle-K and buy some drugs, the Monroe tool of choice. If you were serious about ending your life, you wouldn't be reading this.

And you would not be basking in the attention it brought you.

There are two different directions life takes after you attempt a suicide. The first is the bad way: people shun you for being the weirdo, or they get angry at you. I knew someone who had this happen to them. Their attempt was a last-ditch cry for help, yet they were merely put in a worse position. They completed what they had started by hanging themselves with some bedsheets. They never did have a chance to cure her "disease".

The other direction is the better of the two (??). Your friends and family dote upon you for months, perhaps even years, giving you the love you should have been getting right along. But, as with all things, life slowly returns to normal, and you are brought back to the edge you had jumped over before. Nothing has been solved, merely prolonged.

Let's take a little side trip. Look at the internet, the wonder of technology that allows me, you, anyone to communicate within an instance. It is also our largest library, our most important cultural study, and our dearest reminder of what we have done, and what we might do. It allows anyone to put a website up, and proclaim loudly anything we want to the few stragglers that pass by.

It is also the world's easiest attention tool, if you put in a little work. You can make an "Ate my Balls" page, and instantly you will be on hundreds of directories that keep track (for some strange reason) of those sites. If you like shooting dogs, just go to shootingdogs.com and have a blast. Or go to alt.beatmywife to tell your story. The Internet allows us to be ourselves, or to be someone we're not.

It also allows you to broadcast to the whole planet that you committed suicide.

In my quest for new websites to look at and new material to read, I came across a website listing which merely described "a letter from a daughter to a mother". For some strange reason, I decided to go. This is all of what I found:

***Dear Mother,

I awoke this morning sometime between ten and eleven.  Once I was wide awake I hopped into the shower and cleansed myself until I squeaked.  Once satisfied, I stepped out of the shower and proceeded to style my hair to perfection.  And after applying my makeup, which takes about ten minutes, I walked down the spiral staircase that leads to the enormous hallway which defines our home.

I walked into the kitchen where I immediately smelled bacon and eggs cooking on the stove.  Our maid is an excellent cook.  While waiting for it to be done I grabbed myself a glass of orange juice.  By the time I finished it, breakfast was already on the table, waiting to be eaten.  After doing so, I grabbed my coat and walked out the front door.

I walked on down to the grocery store and picked up a few items for Ms. Smith, which I promised to do yesterday, but forgot.  She's so busy, I thought I'd help her out a little.  Anyway, after I got through doing that, I walked over to the video store to return a couple of movies that weren't even worth renting.  After doing so, I decided to go visit a mutual acquaintance, whom I was buying the gun from.  After I finally received it I put it in my coat and walked back home.

I put the groceries in the kitchen and ran upstairs.  After shutting and locking the door behind me, I stripped down to complete nudity, and set the gun on the bed.  I walked over to the mirror, took one last look at myself, then walked back over to the bed.  I sat down and made myself comfortable. Then I put the gun in my mouth, ready to pull the trigger as soon as I finish writing this.

I know what you're thinking.  This is a boring suicide note.  There's no feelings, no emotions, nothing to tell you how I felt right before I done it. But if I had feelings, I wouldn't be committing suicide.

***Love from your daughter

The site was hosted on Geocities and was owned by someone who used "Emotionless" as a handle. Perhaps this is a joke, and perhaps not. Either way, I am offering her what she wanted... attention. 

There was a counter on the page also, and when I went (which was three days after I actually wrote the URL done) 42 visits had been counted. Were these of "emotionless" checking all of her spelling errors, or adding a heartfelt detail here or there? Or were these friends of "emotionless", seeing the last of what she stood for. Or perhaps merely people like me, wandering around in a medium that gives everyone a voice, but not the power to yell.

I remember staring at the page for a couple of minutes, wondering what I should do, who should I email, who could I talk to. I wanted to do something, even if it was merely a joke. I felt like I needed to... and I realized that there was no one. Sure, I could send it to a major news site, but that would only succeed in getting lost in the thousands of mail they get already. I had no one to turn to. That is where this article came from... the wanting to say something. Thanks for listening.

I would like to end this Devil Shat with an entertaining little piece I wrote a couple of years ago. Your life is hard to leave even if you're dead, and this story proves that fact quite well. Enjoy.

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ili. The Antique Store .ili.
------------------------------ by Morbus

I have committed suicide. Yep, and I'm proud of it. I'm finally free from that nag which law calls my wife. Yep, yep, yep, I'm finally free. Heh, heh, heh, I showed her. Now I only wish I knew where I was. To say it's Limbo, Nirvana, or Shangri-La would be a mistake, I'm sure, because aren't they supposed to be wonderful, and to tell ya the truth, this place sucks. It's just all white, white, white, white, everywhere... am I rambling? Ah, but who would care, I'm alone, right? No more wife, no more boss, no more annoying dog or obnoxious paperboy.

God, am I bored. I wish there was someplace to go, but how do I know if I'm moving if I can't see anything? Huh, how about that? Question of the year, bub! But then again, I'm rambling. Oh, hello! God, now I'm going crazy. I see a stairway... to paraphrase somebody I'm sure, a "Celestial Stairway". Oh well, better than just standing here in the middle of white. Oh, I'm rambling again. Oh well, to the stairway.

Now that I get closer, I can tell that it would be more appropriately named an escalator, like one of those things you get on at the Mall in New York. And now I'm going up, up, up, into the white, white, white. God, I gotta shuttup, or I'm goin' to go crazy. Or maybe I already am. Kinda reminds me of that time when my wife and I got stuck on the escalator when the lights went out. Man, did she scream. Not that it matters now... I'm finally free from her... if I weren't talking to myself, I'd be happy.

This is great. First I'm bored in just plain old whiteness. Now I'm bored while moving through the whiteness. I'd whistle if I could, but I can't seem to find my lips. Now that I think about it, I can't even see my body. I must by cra…oh, what's that? Finally, something that's not white. It's a door! Almost there, almost there, gotta go through, gotta go through, can't this thing go any faster?

Finally, the door. I feel a strange tingling at the back of my neck, almost like the chill you get when someone breathes on you. Oh well. Just gotta open the door, I must get out of this damn white!
	
Oh great, now I can't see anything. It's all black…oh wait, no, now it's changing. Guess my eyes just had to adjust to the dark. What the…who are you? I try to ask, but nothing comes out. But still the little man seems to hear me.

Oh, I'm the owner, he replies.

Owner of what?

Why the Antique Store! The little man paused. Or, you humans would call it Heaven.

This is Heaven. I don't believe it. Now I know I am crazy.

Yes, yes, yes, he replies. Come along now. He drags me into the back of the store. I have someone you should meet. He opens a door, oh god, oh no, no, oh god, send me to hell!

My wife had died of a broken heart, and now she was here too.

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