A Cutters Blood-Slicked Philosophy
By Professor Vile

Yup, I'm scum and I have no guts. Indecision drove me to these desperate decisions and i don't see too many options anymore. The teeth that lay on the floor, lost in a puddle of blood, once protruded in decay from my shattered mouth. the broken fingers on my right hand could serve as a reminder of my own self-destructive impulses. Not that MY ruined mind needed much of a reminder. Oh Well!
The stench of rotting grease hung heavy in my nostrils and vomit welled up in my shredded stomach. My gangrenous right leg dangled aimlessly from my bashed body. Ears pierced by a constant shrill whistle, I sat broken in my own fluids and nauseatingly contemplated the disgusting reality of my situation. will no one ever identify?
Probably not, I figure as i scrape myself off of the soiled couch. What went wrong? Why have I found myself relegated to this state of being?
The living room looked as if it had played the host for some sort of bloody massacre. Crimson slashes in the walls bore a distinct resemblance to the ritual slashes of some primitive tribes. Amongst the random puddles of red lay my right eye, a casualty of unattended damage. My couch reeked of both spoiling blood and fresh urine. when the doorbell burst my usual din like a gunshot, I could barely stand long enough to walk over to the door.
My visitors were Jehovah's witnesses. No big deal. I scared them away with my shredded countenance. Most of my visitors in the past few weeks ran away scared. I feel like Herman Munster. Those bastards will probably rat me out to the authorities. Then i can expect a visit from those nice young men in those nice white coats, or however that old song goes. They will come to take me away!
Until then, I will sit here in my wastes and carve this story into the walls with this blood soaked bone that protrudes from the tip of my left index finger. Maybe they won't even notice it. The building inspector will puke for sure when he gets a load of my vibe! I just don't wanna die just yet, see, cause I want the world to know that I did not do this to myself out of desperation, but rather salvation.
I believe that, at a certain self determined point in time, a man needs to lock himself in his home until he dies. in such a solitary environment, one truly understands the imminent reality of their own mortality. If you still survive after one month of absolute solitude, then you must speed up your death with out directly causing it. The magic moment of death should take you by surprise.
So self mutilation becomes the primary weapon in the war of attrition against yourself. Starvation comes on too slow and dehydration comes on too quick. The finer methods of self-induced trauma usually elude those who could execute them with the best success.
See, most suicides occur in a moment of confusion where the autocidal maniac wants to exit the planet as quickly as possible. You are wrong if you do this. Most cutters cut themselves in a boring, attention seeking fashion. This lacks true heart! To truly succeed, one must accomplish the task of staging numerous "accidents" which serve to destroy whole sections of the body while giving you a role-play-esque sense of pseudo-surprise.
In my case, i booby trapped my house with the express purpose of getting caught in each and every trap at my own unique pace. For instance, I wired my bedroom doorknob to a curiously strong electrical current. Then I lined the shower floor with broken glass and cut off all sources of cold water. I stuck about 1000 carpenter's nails in the underside of my couch's cushions. Razor blades line my toilet seat and i filled the kitchen sink with hydrochloric acid. i also took care of the minor details. ( i.e. Nails through the right lens of my shades, lye in my shampoo bottle, a hole in my floor with a rug covering it,etc.)
For two days, I avoided any inevitable harm. then I realized that I would have to resort to drastic measures in order to pull this plan off. i raided my liquor closet, and then my medicine chest. The combination of alcohol and painkillers came dangerously close to prematurely completing my goal for me, but I pulled through. It did make me stupid enough to try to enter my bedroom though. The shock from the electrical current spiraled up my arm, breaking its bones into splinters. this hurt so badly that I fell back onto my couch and passed out for days with several hundred nails sunk about an inch deep into various parts of my undernourished body. When I woke up, I had to have a tetanus and I know that shock killed whatever pain I did not feel. at this point, I just wanted to die quickly, so I put on my shades, half-hoping that the nail would sink way through my eye and into my brain. No such luck.
For a week, i sat on the couch, growing quite accustomed to the nails. Then, I decided to wash my face off in the kitchen sink. This feat also ruined my other hand, rendering it capable of doing little more than scraping all of this on my living room wall. what worries me now is the fact that I seem to be healing. the painful prospect of living through this test is too much for me to bear. I can hardly move more than this finger at this point, and I've run out of things to kill myself with. The broken glass is out of reach and I'm in too much pain. Why did I fail? What will happen to me? Oh, well. At least it was a noble attempt. Maybe if I close my eyes and concentrate, with all my might, on dying, then maybe...

The end