Make mine snuff.
I wish my life could be more like a great work. A fantastic story of loss and redemption, triumph and loss over and under adversity, something grand in scope that would startle me with plot twists and a fine character arc in which I come to grips with my tragic flaw and find forgiveness for my sins. Unfortunately, I'm consistently disappointed. Sometimes I try to help my destiny out, stacking the deck through careful preparation, waiting for a scene of screaming, crying, love and desire and goals that are never realized. Whether it's actually a negative or positive development has become irrelevant over time, I just want it to be dramatic. To fall in love with a troubled girl and have her overdose on coke at her graduation party, twitching and chattering her teeth, sliding down into my arms and out of consciousness, dying before the paramedics arrive as my tears fall off my chin and land in the thin rivulet of blood leading out of her right nostril and beginning to dry to her face... oh, to be there, in that moment, the deeply orgasmic pain I would know. Just for once to feel the crisp snap of a lead pipe against the back of my neck, only to wake up bent over a large oak desk, barely able to feel the rough, dry object plunging in and out of my asshole (suspecting it's a dick) but making out the grunts, the groans, and finally, when my vision clears, recognizing the office as my psychiatrist's. I want to look at my life and see where the acts begin and end. I want a wildly popular hip-hop song to play in thirty second snippets every time I enter a new place to act as an ad for the feel-good yet heart-wrenching tale that is my struggle with heroin and zombies, or how I fought racial prejudice in the police force while handicapped, retarded, gay and racist. Make me a cliche, a bomb, a hackneyed rip-off of Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo. But it's an ending that's really important, so when I get out of my seat in the movie theatre and walk down to the screen, withdraw the single-barrel shotgun from my coat and place it at the proper angle underneath my chin to literally blow my entire head up onto the large canvas, I'm expecting some kind of a showdown. Where is my foil? Mr. Serial Killer? Unloving Mother? Rich And Good-Looking But Mean Guy? No one's coming, no one's even noticing. Not wanting to hold up the production, I pull the trigger, and the effect goes off perfectly, the neck severing just above my adam's apple and the entire head splits, the blood packets firing just right along with the foam ball intended to resemble pieces of skull, and the body slumps to the ground without folding, not at all looking like a dummy. Cut. Cut? No one's stopping. A cleanup crew comes in and removes the dummy body, mops the floor, wipes down the circle of effluence on the screen, easily 9 ft. in diameter, and the lights dim. I wonder why no one's crying uncontrollably in the balcony, having arrived at the very last second. No one cares. Then I realize my mistake--I was delaying the beginning of the movie. How inconsiderate of me. Let's all go to the lob-by, let's all go to the lob-by...