I find it kind of funnyI find it kind of sadThe dreams in which I'm dyingAre the best I've ever had--from Tears for Fears' Mad World (1982)Just in case you're about to pick up the phone and inform the authorities that a crazy person is planning to kill himself on the Internet, let me start by saying that I have made no such plans -- at least not with the sort of urgency that would require your drastic intervention.Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let's talk about death, shall we?It would be untruthful (not to mention cliche) if I were to say that I've been "plagued" or "tormented" by suicidal thoughts for as long as I can remember. "Pestered" seems the more appropriate term because, while these impulses have been quite virulent at times, they are, for the most part, pretty mild. I'll be reminded of an upcoming family function, or my girlfriend will want to discuss "the relationship" and I'll think, "if I just go ahead and kill myself, I can totally avoid this."Thanks to an imagination that is as vivid as it is morbid, these fantasies do tend to be disturbingly graphic and detailed. Usually, they involve a stainless steel .38 or .357 revolver pressed under my chin. Never in the mouth -- at least not since a plastic surgeon from Dallas explained to me that his most challenging jobs involve reconstructing the faces of those poor souls who, in a last second change of heart, attempt to jerk the barrel out of their mouths while pulling the trigger.The gun is always hard and cold; my flesh yields all too willingly to its unwavering sense of purpose. In my more philosophical moments I envy the inherent certainty of its design -- if only whoever put me together had shown a similar dedication to craftsmanship. I feel its reassuring heft in my hand, and take a deep breath as my finger wraps around the bevelled edges of the trigger. Hints of gunpowder, brass and cleaning oil combine to fill my sinuses with a musky, erotically-charged aroma.Sometimes I leave my body just as I pull the trigger and watch bits of my brains explode through the top of my skull and splatter across the walls and ceiling. Other times I hear only the click of the hammer and then everything goes black.These scenarios don't always involve guns, though I'm guessing the huge chunk of my formative years spent watching John Wayne and Clint Eastwood blow the heads off their enemies has left my psyche riddled with romantic ideas about firearms. As a teenager, I devoted an unacceptable number of hours to tragic reveries in which, after being chased through rainswept streets by vengeful policemen, I was shot down on the stoop of whichever neighbourhood girl had most recently rebuffed my adolescent declarations of ardour.In addition to the effects of a bullet smashing through my skull, I've pictured what it might feel like to pour gasoline over myself and light it (not good), jump off a bridge or building (way too much time to think on the way down), hang myself in a closet (is that flimsy clothes rod really supposed to hold my weight?), slash my wrists (in a word? Messy), and suffocate myself by wrapping a plastic bag over my head (this one seems rather nice, actually). All of these have their own charms and drawbacks, and I often wonder how people manage to decide. Is it merely a question of what's handy at the moment, or is it the kind of thing people put a lot of thought into?I'm not sure how unusual these preoccupations are. I'm guessing the average person doesn't spend large parts of their day fighting off recurring fantasies of self-immolation. And those who do end up offing themselves probably don't waste thirty-odd years figuring out how to do it. At any rate, this may be the one area where a tendency to procrastinate has provided me with a unique advantage and perspective.It seems like I have always been obsessed with images of death and dying. In elementary school, I covered my notebooks with images of skulls and headstones bearing my name as well as those of my teachers and fellow students. In my mid-teens I stumbled into pits of depression so black and crushing that the only thing that kept me breathing was the constant repetition of a homemade mantra that I still call on when things seem particularly bleak. Don'tkillyourself ... don'tkillyourself ... don'tkillyourself ...And yet, here I am -- not just alive, but enjoying what most people would consider an enviable existence. I work in a field that is creative and stimulating, and enjoy a fair amount of success. I have close, satisfying friendships with people who care about me. I've travelled around the world, eaten great food, drunk spectacular wines, and slept with scores of gorgeous, facinating women. It's as if this incessant awareness of death has always been tied to a powerful but silent undertow, a countervailing desire to feast on all that life has to offer.But even now, as I inch toward 50, an age that only the most deluded or genetically-gifted can refer to as mid-life, I find myself looking to suicide as a means of forestalling that tedious process of decline and decay known as the golden years. With each day bringing me inexorably closer to bifocals, hearing aids and adult diapers, a quick sidestep into the infamous white light seems an increasingly attractive option.But don't think for a minute that the decision to end yourself puts all other questions to rest. Trying to figure out what happens after the moment of truth has been the preoccupation of humanity since like, forever. And to be honest, uncertainty about what lies ahead is sometimes the only that keeps me out of the check-out line. Most of my money's on a quick fade to black, followed by a long, peaceful sleep. But one can never be sure that God, with his infinitely quirky sense of humour, hasn't already prepared to have you sodomized unto eternity by a chorus line of goat-headed demons with red hot spikes on their cocks.Over the years, I've come up with some pretty creative theories about the afterlife. One of my favourites involves being whisked off to a sort of cosmological Cineplex where you're forced to watch a movie of your entire life play out on an endless loop. If you're happy with what you've accomplished before you checked out, then re-living the time you punched the neighbourhood bully in his fat stupid face, or that night you made out with both the Mahoney sisters is about as close to paradise as one can get. On the other hand, I can think of no more scalding version of hell than being forced to stand in front of the fourth grade gym class and pee your pants over and over again with no power to change or stop it (okay, maybe that one's just me, but I think you get the point).This blog is a random collection of my thoughts on suicide, death and the afterlife, as well as all the stories I feel I need to tell before I go ahead and shuffle off this mortal coil. Is it a little dark? I suppose so, but if, as Socrates once said, the unexamined life is not worth living, wouldn't it be a shame not to take a little time and make sure that whatever end awaits you is really worth dying for?