I'm sure it says something really dark and ugly about me that the only real way out is through the barrel of my gun.
I no longer have sex fantasies, thank goodness (those were bad enough), but I do have death fantasies, particularly under stress. I want to die; that's the backdrop to everything I do these days, it seems. But in my fantasy, I go out quick. The fantasy is to go to a bank, gun in hand, announce why I'm killing myself there, and then making sure I'm at an angle that will spray the maximum amount of my blood and brain matter on as many people as possible. They will literally feel my anger in my body-hot blood, in the still-pulsing brain matter that lands on their nice, clean clothes.
In reality, the way I'll do it is much cleaner. I'll make phone calls, particularly to make sure someone is en route to get my pets. Once I get my affairs taken care of, I'll simply pull the trigger in my back yard, so no clean up (beyond getting rid of my useless body) will be necessary.
I now see that the only true act of self-assertion possible in a time and place where everything and everyone is utterly controlled is suicide. Not some machine, some drug cocktail; it must be brutal to make the point. There must be trauma. No bogus sense of peace draped over it; the deliberate smashing of skull to splinters is absolutely required.
Bud Dwyer, you are my hero: