The Note

by ~halfhaggis

Everyone falls down sometime. And when it’s your turn, everyone else tells you to get back up on that proverbial horse that threw you in such a proverbial manner.

What they failed to comprehend when they gave me the horse lecture was that I am not a proverbial person. I, being real (or at least that is how I perceive myself ) am quite incapable of riding on the back of a concept. Even if I could get on to a proverbial horse, I wouldn’t. Simply because I might fall off; and hitting the ground is going to hurt.

Now these fools who believe a collection of proverbs and idioms to be a sort of bible will be quick to tell me that, in a proverbial sense, I have no ambition. Of course, it’s blatantly obvious how much ambition they possess as they try to live by a load of crap that several people thought up while extremely bored. But hey, lousy radio and TV personalities and politicians make extensive use of the things and they haven’t been fired yet. Probably because the government’s and SABC’s bureaucratic methods haven’t got around to it. A terrible shame, really. Everyone should have a tuit, but they’re very hard to come by - especially the round tuits. But I digress.

So, instead of my voluntarily getting on to my horse, I was happy to lie on the gravel at the horse’s hooves. I’d fallen hard. I’d hit my head. The gravel had cut my skin. Well, that’s what the proverbial nitwits said. Everything a goddamn proverb. Always euphemisms. No, he hadn’t had a total nervous breakdown and was chronically depressed. He’d had a traumatic and very stressful period. But he’d get better. We’ll help him.

In a proverbial sense, what those other caring, over-concerned people (who were trying to make some money) did, was to pick me up, dust me off, and clean and plaster up the wounds. Since I’d fallen off a horse, and did not want to get back on, they placed me gently on a fluffy cloud.
The cloud was nice for a while. I was actually happy, or so I was confused into thinking. It was all a bit too surreal though. I had become far too happy, too quickly. How could someone who had been so sad, suddenly become so glad?
I became disillusioned with this. Although I was happy, I was not. I stopped taking the cocktail of drugs and medication that the over-concerneds were feeding me.
Almost instantaneously the cloud started to darken and shake me around a bit. It spat lightening in every direction. PWS or Proverbial Withdrawal Symptoms. They become worse. It started to rain and then the cloud dispersed. I fell down again, but on average, clouds are much higher up than horses.
I presume they’ll get to use their euphemisms again. They won’t dare to be blunt. They won’t go into detail about what happened. They won’t say, “He put the barrel in his mouth; pulled the trigger,” and they definitely won’t say, “and the top of his head was blown off in a spray of blood, brains, and skull. It was very messy. Took ages to clean up the ceiling and the walls and the windows.”

Nope, they won’t say that. I don’t understand why. Maybe it’s a fear of the harsh reality, and brutality that death is. And that they are destined to meet death in an equally harsh and brutal manner. Instead, they’ll say, “He passed away tragically. He was a very misunderstood and troubled young man. It’s very sad, but maybe it’s better this way.” Someone might say something like “He blew his brains out,” but that’s so callous, right?
Of course, there are the tabloid reporters. They won’t spare any gruesome fact. Nothing will be missed out. They may even print a few gory pictures. But I’m not famous yet, and I doubt shooting myself will do the trick, so they probably won’t bother.

The caring bastards want to put me in an institute. They say I’m suicidal. Can you believe that? What I’m interested in is who is supposed to pay for this institutionalisation. I sure as hell won’t. I can’t afford it. They don’t really care about me anyway - they’re just trying to make a quick buck. Well, there’ll be none of that! The only institute I’m going to is the morgue. It’s got really good air-conditioning, no-one tells you what to do, and it’s completely free.
You’re probably thinking, “Was it worth it? He was clearly delusional, thinking those institutions are just trying to make money, and not actually help people. They could’ve helped him, if only we’d got to him sooner. If only we’d known how bad it was. But still, it’s never bad enough to commit suicide.”

Didn’t you read ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ dammit? I’m never going to one of those places. I don’t need a Nurse Ratchet impersonator to look after me, thanks. Fortunately, I’m not about to commit suicide, so quit worrying and don’t send yourself on some sort of guilt-trip. Suicide strikes me more as a sort of Self-Imposed Euthanasia, and that’s what I’m going to do.
Or maybe I’ve just resorted to euphemisms.