Area Man Unfortunately Committed to Living

With a noose cinched around his neck and a belly full of pills, area man Elijah Stone came to the unwelcome conclusion that he could not go through with his own suicide. The thirty two year old New Symrna Beach native hesitantly removed his noose and puked up the pills without relish. "But I'm keeping the ones in my butt" he added. When asked why Mr. Stone did not go through with the "totally sweet" suicide he had planned, he sighed. "It's pretty lame, but for the moment I have to keep on living this bummer-clad life." Going into detail about everything from the inherent chaos of the universe to how annoying his dealer, Jeff, could be, Elijah depicted our current reality as a bleak and horrific hellscape, a torment to all beings.

After an eloquent speech, Mr. Stone then recanted and cobbled together a desperate and, quite frankly, unconvincing argument. "Well, I still got my terrible dog, Quinceanera, who literally killed a girl on her Quinceanera. That's why I called her that. I have no idea why they didn't put her down, by the way. Anyway, I would feel pretty bad for the person that would have to take care of her. So, that's one thing I guess." Mr. Stone went on to list other such reasons as his one pen pal that hasn't written back in over two years and the near certainty that he would test positive for one of a number of STDs that he believed himself infected. "I just kind of want to know" he shrugged.

Apparently exhausted from the mental exertion required of him to draw up these regrettable rationale, Elijah  laid down. His posture not so much belied the cognitive dissonance of a man no doubt drowning in the dark waters of chaos, but rather his countenance, which was contorted with anguish. Still, he eked out a broken smile. "There's some chance that someone at my job will have to pick up the slack from the absence caused by my death. And even though I hate most of my coworkers, I wouldn't wish my fax machines duties on anyone."

Titillated by the dark ruminations of this pathetic soul, this reporter decided to go elbow deep. Prodding him further, I asked how the mild inconvenience of his death was in any way a justification for life. "Ehhh," he squeaked "no one likes a hassle." Though not unreceptive to this reporter's insistence that life itself is merely a prolonged suicide, a slowly tightening noose which wreaths our hearts in dread, Elijah remained committed to living. When presented with the intimate option of joining this reporter in a whimsical suicide pact, Elijah declined. Thoughtfully, however, he did agree to transcribe the rest of our interview as I asphyxiated. With the pallor of death marching across my body and a prodigious erection, the door bell rang. Elijah answered and let in what appeared to be a Kristen Stewart impersonator. Mustering a wave hello in the last moments of my consciousness, I overheard what was almost certainly a negotiation concerning the value of my soon-to-be-dead body.