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The Kind Rapist (2)

Modern medicine is, mostly, a sham. It’s designed to keep you paying money exponentially from birth to death. It’s not here to cure you of whatever the fuck ails you. It’s here to make it manageable until you die. Do you want to make it manageable until you die for free? Legalize pot. Marijuana. Weed. Cannabis. Grow it for yourself and learn from YouTube how to manage your crop and your bounty. This is your pain medicine, human being. It is an appetite stimulant, as well, so be sure to plan your foodstuffs accordingly. Be sure to examine the macros you need on a daily basis for optimal cellular function. Be sure to stock your fridge.

Throw out the beer, the vodka, and the wine. Get rid of it. Drink it up, if you must, but it is a poison. You knew that all along. “Pick your poison.” As if that was a joke, you joshingly decide on this one or that one. They’re all fatal in the right dosage and you know that inherently. So why do you do it? Oh, right. You’re suicidal.

Anyone who cannot or will not put down the bottle, just die. Shoot yourself and end the misery for the rest of us now. That’s what you’re doing in slow motion. You are trying to die. You are crying for help as you drink away your pain. (Grow marijuana instead, baby boys and girls. It can’t kill all that wonderful bacteria in your biome.) Do you think murdering billions of bacteria in your gut is right? Do you? Is it really your job to decide to cleanse those right out of there with ethanol, which, by the way, is rubbing alcohol. You might as well buy that and spike your Kool-Aid, kids. You already are, but you’re paying an arm and a leg for it by acquiring it from Mr. Jack Daniels and Captain Morgan and the rest. (“Me and the cap’n make it happen!” — Sansara.)

You wouldn’t have to do either one — drink yourself to death or shoot yourselves — if we just legalized euthanasia. Hear me out before you get into an uproar, though… Look, I know. Dying is the last thing most of us really want, right? At least, when we are awake and sober, anyway. But listen here… there are a lot of things going wrong in this world and keeping old people alive in pain is one of them. We have at least one billion people on planet Earth who are in enough pain that they would opt for euthanasia.

If euthanasia was a mainstream thing, this is how the world could change: we could have afterlife parties. We could literally throw our very last shindig, have our last hurrah, at our own pace and for our own reasons. Of course, we’d want counselors to help everyone possible. We want to be sure of this very permanent choice we’re making, I get that. But once we’ve made it and surpassed all the counseling, if we are truly done in this world, let’s have one big party. Invite everyone you ever knew to your Death Day party (or whatever you call it.) DELIVER YOUR OWN EULOGY… I mean, really. What better way to go out than to tell people what you want them to remember you for? Plus, then you can let everyone who wishes to speak about you do so… and those of you who would ruin this beautiful thing, just go to Hell already. Here’s the hand basket. Get in, we’ll deliver you post-haste.

Your party could serve everything you love to eat to you and/or your guests. You can literally have all your favorite everythings one last time. And then you can put on your best clothing and go with dignity to your Death Appointment, passing on without regrets. And whatever happens to you, you can tell the person at the Death Appointment how to dispose of your corpse now that you’re all done. No more of this living will bull shit required, no more wills required. Just get it notarized on your way out the door.

Might I suggest you choose a tree to be your grave marker? I’ve always wanted to be nourishing a tree as my very last act. Screw embalming and all that jazz and put a tree on top of me. And then, if you must, a tiny little plaque of some sort with my name on it. It’d be better off in some sort of public record instead with coordinates, if you ask me. Besides, you don’t need to see a frickin’ grave to know I’m dead once it’s happened.

I’m scared of death, you might say, even though everything you do marches you to your own suicide. (Drunk driving? Death wish. Binge drinking? Death wish. Binge drug usage? Death wish. Starving yourself? Death wish. Malnutrition? Death wish. Putting hand to mouth? Death wish. All of it is a death wish that manifests extremely slowly. Take the brave man’s way out and shoot yourself or vote for euthanasia.)

We all have to die eventually. Even if we didn’t, take a look at Altered Carbon. (Fantastic series, Netflix. Can we have season 3 please? My vessel is extremely interested in learning more about what Quellcrest Falconer is going to do about the fact that she’s determined her own invention is the downfall of mankind. Also, for all you idiots who hate season 2: that’s because you have no hearts.) Anyway, in Altered Carbon (AC), we see the humanity die out in people as their consciousness expands to fill hundreds of years. Everything becomes a game to the Methuselahs, the people who have control over all the resources just so they don’t have to dig in the dirt for their food. They treat other human beings like cattle, caring very little over whether they live or die. They become inhumane.

How do we know this is the eventual future of mankind? How many old people do you see trying to save the environment? There are some, but tons of them give up and stop recycling, one of the most basic things you can do to share the work load of keeping Earth beautiful. I should know… The Burgesons are a prime example. Two ancient Burgeson family members can’t be bothered to separate the recycling from the trash any longer. Do they deserve to live? No. They don’t. They deserve to be able to schedule their death and go on to the next big adventure.

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