cw: satire, suicidal ideation
I used to cry at lunch because I was seven and life was meaningless. In middle school I listened to Marilyn Manson and drew an upside down cross on my forehead every morning. In high school I smoked piles of weed. Eventually the doc gave me pills to be happy. They turned my emotions and my dick off but I was, ostensibly, happier.
The first few weeks of college were marvelous. I met new people, flirted with girls, got drunk and ignored my classwork. But as the months glided by, I slid back into the warm embrace of my depression. Wrote papers about Camus for my physics class, crafted unhappy faces with bulbous noses on every chalkboard, and surreptitiously poked holes in all of the GUM condoms.
I went to SHACS to see if they could fix me. After making an appointment to make an appointment to talk to someone, I arrived three weeks later to talk to someone. First they asked me what made me happy. I told them playing drinking games to Schindler’s List and writing sad poems about why I’m too intellectual to get laid after Harrises. The nurse lady suggested I take a medical leave for the rest of the semester. I told her dad got drunk and threw copies of the Bible at me whenever I tried to talk to him about Bernie Sanders. Instead, she gave me a handful of pills. They made me drool a lot during class and have strange dreams where Jesus turned me into a poinsettia and made fun of my sexual ambiguity.
I tried to keep the chipper attitude of a good American college student, but my incorrigible sadness stemming from the pain of living clung to my neck like that turtleneck I bought to show everyone how good of a writer I was. Whenever the pills didn’t work good I tried going to the wellness lounge, but was mortified to find that a box of crayons and a fucking jigsaw puzzle couldn’t cure the mental illness I’d be suffering from for two odd decades. I stole vodka from main and yelled about neoliberalism. Anyone walking down south loggia was in for a big surprise. When my art teacher said my charcoal drawing of Friedrich Nietzsche weeping and having sex with my philosophy professor was a little contrived my will was finally and irreparably broken. I decided life wasn’t worth living.
Drugs? I don’t have money. Guns? I go to Grinnell; I don’t know how to fire a gun. Rope? I can’t tie a knot. Death by cop? I’m white… For days this last, great question bounced asunder in the walls of my skull. Laying on my dorm bed, I heard the piercing wail of the train ambling through the prairie. My solution accompanied the gnashing of steel on steel. I would fuck with the train in the hope that it would behead me, or at least take off a limb or two. I would do the suicide good. Grinnellians would forever after discuss that one kid who did the suicide good, and lament that they would have to live a life upholding Grinnell’s tradition of social responsibility, for they could never do the suicide as good as I did the suicide.
Just as I was about to log onto my email to inform my teachers that I would no longer be attending their classes as the train was about to eat me, I came upon a special campus memo. I told me that Grinnell had purchased the Grinnell Country Club adjacent to campus. It had a golf course. While I had wandered there inebriated to sing Creep and vomit, I had never given it much thought. I decided to walk there, smoke cigarettes, and wait for the train. I arrived and saw the moon light sloping grounds like a floodlight. Artificial ponds grew luminescent like holy water. A lone figure swung and sent a golf ball sailing into two holes at once. RayKay riding bareback atop a golden wolf. In that rapturous moment I knew that I could never succumb to my sadness. I would become golf and golf would become me. I would rise at 3am every morning to train incessantly. Soon I would be touring the world, beating investment bankers and hedge fund managers alike at this supreme form of recreation. Golf is not sport. Golf is art.
I found a purpose. Just like that, I switched my major from French/ Worm Studies/ Unitarian Universalism to Turf Grass Design. Now my days are filled with the ecstasy of club hitting ball, the orgasm of a hole-in-one.
Don’t do suicide.