Fanciful suicides

Thursday night, our writer's group met at the Paradise Bakery in American Fork. If you'd been there, you would have been shocked at how much talent can exert so much gloom. I love their gloom. It isn't as if we don't cheer each other's book offers, we do. It is heartfelt. But even book offers have their gloomy sides like outrageous completion dates. I like how some of us don't bathe every day. Some of us are on pain meds. Some of our families are askew in ways we can't fix. Some can't believe they've written a dystopian novel, some are adjusting to aging. Cheri, the cheeriest one, (and the blondest, I just this minute realized) organized us into a schedule of sorts for the next few months. We will write. We will read. We will encourage. I love these people.

Speaking of gloomy, last week when I was in the gloam of gloom, I thought of some fanciful ways to commit suicide. Ways that might amuse others. For example, hanging myself by tying a bouquet of balloons around my neck. Think how pretty it would look as I floated upwards wearing my straightline jeans with my industrial boots, a brace on the right foot, and my favorite non-iron white shirt.

Another way to commit suicide would be to fill a large clear plastic bag with butterflies and then my head. Tie comfortably around my neck and breathe as long as I can, which won't be that long. Think how pretty I and the butterflies will look together.

I'm sure there are other pretty ways to off yourself. Even Anne Sexton wore her mink coat to asphyxiate herself. Pretty classy if you ask me.