My Suicide Note
Fiona Flynn
I imagine what I look like dead a lot. I’ll lie on my bed, posed in a stiff position, staring blankly out of the corner of my eye. Then I’ll switch up the position so maybe this time my hand is elegantly resting on my cheek, like I was having a really profound thought when I finally kicked it. I watch myself from above. I see what could’ve been.
My roommate finds me the next morning when she comes in to ask if I wanna go get matchas. “Fiona?” She goes to touch me. I’m cold. She screams. What she does next, I haven’t figured out yet. I imagine she’d call my parents. I’d hate to put her under that kind of pressure though. To have to hear the relief in my parents' voices as they respond to the inevitable, what they have been anxiously waiting to hear since I was 14 years old and they’d wake up to me choking them.
Maybe we’ll find out next time on What Would You Do? with John Quiñones. “This dumb bimbo couldn’t handle the sheer dread and basic monotony of life. If you were to stumble upon this hot dead bod with no one around, what would you do?” I dare one of you pervs to try and stick it into my flesh bag, I will literally give you ghost head and suck your soul right out of your dick. The post nut clarity will be eternal.
Like every other self-loathing narcissistic, I wonder which of my past hookups will attend the no doubt cheap shit show of a funeral. Dylan will likely be too high to attend, maybe he’ll be dead too at that point. Elijah will give me one last good look up and down, then move onto my sister (he always preferred brunettes). Josh will be devastated, naturally, because I never let him hit it.
My mom’s Facebook post will be a slideshow of my selfies with some random Gwen Stefani song and a caption like “My biggest girl is being watched over by mother nature now as she biodegrades into the earth. So proud of her!” My mom is high as she writes this.
I will have an open casket because I didn’t spend all of those years at hot yoga for nothing. If my sister read my directions correctly, The Doors “Twentieth Century Fox” will be blaring over the stereo as everyone wishes me their farewells.. I’m hoping they dress me in something timeless because I can’t handle having to spend eternity in my ghost body wearing some TikTok micro trend that is now a Fashionnova dress hanging on the rack at the goodwill. Also, I want my cat to be buried with me so someone is going to have to kill the little shit before I’m laid down to rest. I don’t care how you do it. I know that’s selfish but I literally just killed myself so clearly I’m inconsiderate.
Finally, I don’t want my body buried nor cremated. I would like my body to be placed in the dumpster behind my favorite bar in my hometown (you’ll know the one), preferably on a Saturday because the trashman comes on Fridays and I would like my body to begin to stink and ooze. One last disturbance at this establishment before I am thrown out of the bar—forever.
So there you have it. My wet dream death. The ultimate guide to dying. Hell, maybe I should make a career out of this? Dying Cute for Dummies? It’s basically like planning a quinceañera or a charity ball but with drunker attendees and more weird hookups. Death planning could be a chic new trend depending on how you spin it. Would you like the Victorian wife who found out her beloved husband was fucking her niece or perhaps the classic “Virgin Suicides” storyline of a girl plagued with insufferable dread and longing for something she doesn’t have the words for. Obviously the price increases based on a scale of lore from Sylvia Plath to Evelyn McHale whose last words in her suicide note were “Tell my father, I have too many of my mother's tendencies.” Ok Gillian Flynn!
Girls everywhere will be dying to...die! Soon we’ll have influencers and celebs alike taking their lives as the hottest new way to brand themselves. Any PR agent would be dumb not to convince their clients into killing themselves. Once anyone with a brain sees this new development on their Instagram feed, people will be dropping by the thousands! Business will be booming. I’ll need to hire a whole team of baddies to keep up with the mess. By the time the fad has faded away, most everyone will be dead and more importantly I will be rolling in dough.
With this new found financial freedom I will inevitably end up in Costa Rica where I will spend the rest of my days lounging by the beach snorting ketamine. I will live a beautiful, rich life and die of old age in my sleep (which will be unheard of by this point). I will join the rest of you awful spirits and we will continue to rage on. Who knows, maybe I’ll even stumble upon a new hot business venture in hell.
Eating earwax and other fun things
Fiona Flynn
If you want to reach orgasm without doing the whole masturbation thing, I recommend sticking a Q tip in your ear. Poke around for a bit and hit the sweet spot–you’ll know what I’m talking about.
Once you’ve begun itching it like a tweaker, you will find yourself staring into just one of your eyes in the mirror as you reach a cataclysmic concoction of the equivalent to creaming your jeans. It reminds you of the time your meth-head aunt gave you too many shrooms and you sat in bed, paralyzed, because every inch of your body was orgasming. A man could never make me cum the way those mushrooms did that day.
At some point you may find yourself going too far, you overdid it, like that celebrity who’s had sex with so many twenty somethings that they don’t know their mouth from their asshole. They stopped counting bodies and now they bump into the Chateau waitress they fucked last weekend, while walking hand in hand with their micro-influencer of the week (she really just wants to fuck his even more A-list celebrity friend—oops).
If you’ve been digging in there for more than 2 minutes you will begin to feel really dirty—like the first time you watched porn with your middle school best friend and she tells you that if you feel a tingle down there you’re a lesbian.
At this point you need to give yourself a serious talking to about this absurd behavior you’re allowing to transgress. Pull that damn thing out of your ear! But what would happen if you really let yourself fall into this masochistic pursuit of hedonism like everyone else in Los Angeles. You’re now like every other junkie and libertine of the world—riding in some dude’s Tesla, vermined with dopamine, sucking his dick while the car drives itself down the highway. The only possible destination being that of a total nihilistic void of endless doom-scrolling through TikTok and eternal objectification.
You come to—you’re 30 years old (gross). You pull the Q tip out—gold clings to its head. It's beautiful, it almost sparkles, so enticing–a golden, ageist, wasteland. You taste it. Disgusting. Spit, purge. Today you learned the reward is never as sweet as the journey.
Fiona is an artist who currently resides in Santa Barbara where she spends everyday on the beach. She is currently studying for the LSAT and figuring out her next move.