Pills are in my hand….

To whom it may concern:

I cannot rely on those I know. I cannot rely on those I love. So, perhaps the anonymity of the blog to the browsers on the Internet might help, alternately.

This is me. And, since you don’t know who I am, I can be free (interesting, isn’t that?):

I’m in my early thirties, I’m married and I am diagnosed with Autism. I have at least a 165 I.Q. and grossly underdeveloped neural pathways and receptors. I’m truly smarter than anyone I know in history and I say that in humility. I’m poor, I didn’t finish college because I’m disabled, I’m out of work, in immense debt and behind in payments, I’m addicted to pornography as my coping mechanism and I’ve contemplated suicide since I was a little boy. And, yes, attempts have been made.

They’re called hesitation wounds: it is the phrased term used usually in suicide cases where, successful or not, a victim of suicide hesitates due to the inherent fear of death and also the pain inflicted usually with most acts of self-euthanasia. I have hyperacusis, an over-sensitivity to physical pain, I live in perpetual anxiety, I have chronic migraines (which I hoped was terminal brain cancer. But, alas, it is not. Just migraines to make my time, my useless and pointless time on earth, even more painful) I have social anxiety, I have relational anxiety, telephonic anxiety… I have chronic-fucking-anxiety.

I learned an instrument to the state of intermediary-advanced in just over three years; capable of holding my own in an orchestra. I can play half a dozen others. I can write anything. I have perfect grammar. I, personally, wager my I.Q. over 200. I see, hear and know things I’m told that I’m a fool for even speaking about to the layman… including my theories on a cure for aids. But, with only a high school diploma and a handful of credits from a perfectly incompetent scholastic enterprise of corrupt and bureaucratically and hypocritical, tyrannical academia, I couldn’t finish college and I walk this earth and have walked (limped) this c**k sucking mother fu**ing fraction of a life-severing planet of death, bullying, hate, war, disease and total and international injustice unaccredited.

I have theories to advance the science/art of music. I have theories to advance war. I have theories to advance and to better our social-economical stability as a planet and not just a nation. I have theories and theories and theories. Can I prove them? Well, I’d like to try.

60 sleeping pills probably would not do it. I’ll mix as many as I can–probably close to 200–in perhaps some juice, applesauce… I don’t know: just enough to shut down my nervous-system and respiratory system, isolated adequately so that no dumb-fu*k paramedic may wretched resuscitate me.

Depressed since birth. Depressed, depressed and furthermore depressed. I’ve prayed, I’ve tried, I’ve strugged, I’ ve done everything I can but nothing has worked, no one has saved me and absolutely no one cares that I have a disability. They can’t see it. The can’t feel it. Every time I have to act against the want of accommodation for someone in my position, I imagine blowing my brains out. I want to die so badly. This is my anonymous cry and plea for help to live. I dare you. I double dare you, reader, to think that you can convince me to live. Because I have nothing to live for.

Before you say it, I love my wife. But, I’m poor. I hafve no money. I can’t make anymore money, I’m still searching, I’m still studying and I have become the master and absolute guru of filling out applications, coverletters…. God in Heaven!! “Use this format for the perfect cover letter to land you your dream job.” There’s so much B.S. in this world it’s no wonder the useless and meaningless “achievement” of a Bachelors degree is called a “B.S.” Then you have your endless payment of student loans.

I’ll die and be happy in Heaven. Yes, everyone here will be sad I went. Everyone here will be miserable. Well, I’ve been miserable my whole life and I am in no way being hyperbolic: I mean that with absolute sincerity: for over thirty years the longest period of joy I had was 2 months. I also remember the only peaceful night sleep I ever had… one!

There is a remedy: money. There is a cure: money. There is something that would make me happy: money! With money I can explore my theories and, you know, eat. With money I can buy a house and  live comfortably and peacfully with my wife. With money I can better raise my children, when and if I may be blessed to have any. With money I can pay for food. With money I can buy clothes and car repairs and stuff. And before anyone hypocritically says I’m “lazy”, I was forced to quit my job due to injustice, predjudice and all the other “juces” out there. Before I quit, how about me saying that my typcal work week consisted of 90 to 100 hours. No! Not pay period, a week; seven days, yes! I would average 12 to 13 and up to  19 hours… every-f*cking-day. I was making 13 dollars an hour. Uncle Sam took (stole) most of it. I quit because I was having perpetual nervous breakdowns. Now, I’m broke and I have extreme debts. Tell me, reader, what should I do? Tell me, where should I go? Tell me, reader, tell this person who is probably smarter than you, who has read all the books, who has heard all the counsel and knows all the paths and knows more than you know about what he COULD do and what he MIGHT do not to kill himself. Tell him he has every reason to live. If you do, I’m swallowing. If you tell me to seek theraputic help, I’m swallowing (I’ve seen my therapist for over 15 years). If you tell me to call a suicide hotline, I’m swallowing, because I already have. If you tell me anything I don’t already know or have tried, you will induce my suicide. My only resort now rests with pure anonymity. Good luck, for which luck is a lie and good fortune is a lie because I have never, EVER, seen true happiness in my life… and I’ve been around so don’t insult my intelligence. I only need pure charity; pure gift giving becasue I’ve exhausted every conveivable resource.

Just as as last note, I’ve written better than Shakespeare at colleges and was rejected and reviled. I speculated wireless headphones in about 2001 and was told that it would never work. I’ve interpreted in my own thoughts the next generation of Information Technology and even the generation beyond that. I know more about theology and the Bible than the pastors I converse with and knowj the docrtrine they get right and wrongt. I know a lot and have even concluded, albeit loosely because I only have the mental projection and not the tools, equipment or lab to substatite fully my hypothosis, Einsteins theory of relativity. I know the truth behind evolution. I know, I know and I know. And becasue you dont’ know who I  am, I can speak, type, freely. I can even not really care too  much about my typing accuracy and run over the mispelled words and missed grammar. This is due to my rage. Logophilia is my main weapon and onomotomania is my basis of standard, repetition in study and retention of knowledge; one of the “benefits” of Autism. I see more truth than anyone and I can barly buy my tacos and Del Taco and barely fill up my car for Uber.

200 pills, and it should be enough. I’m totally serious. I’m on the verge. I want to impact the world. i want to earn money and work in a field and I want to show the results of the Riemann Hypothesis proven TRUE!!!!

I hate this world I hate my life and I want to die so badly. If you think you can convince me (I beg you, please) then try. I want to live. I’m just so sick of surviving. Do any of you have a scholarship you’d like to bestow? I’ve created the language of angels if that can work as proof of my genius:

Enn ostra namm tou’f’ostre patroser. Enn ostra nam tou’f’ostre sonn. Enn ostre namm tou’f’ostre sancte’sunn. A’menn.

I have its calligraphy ready too, since English characters act only as a phonetical template.

Thank you, I hope….

-Suicide Anonymous 777.