The theme song from the movie M.A.S.H. is called “Suicide Is Painless.” I don’t know if suicide is actually painless, but I know that graduating is not. Graduation is nine months away for me and I’m already getting nauseous just thinking about it. Just the thought of what I am going to do after graduation has been as intrusive to my sleep patterns as that guy who shows up to class 20 minutes late with one of those ridiculously long skateboards is to my educational experience. Naturally, this guy always wants to sit in the middle of the row I happen to be attempting to learn something in. Like graduation, I would like that guy to disappear from my life altogether.
My current plan has been to tell anyone willing to listen that I am “taking a year off.” I have absolutely no idea what this is supposed to entail, but for the next year it will keep a lot of people off my back. This jewel of a phrase basically gives me a whole year in which I can effectively reside in what entomologists refer to as the pupa stage. In other words, I can be a deadbeat with minimal repercussions. The only problem behind this plan is that eventually I will be expected to sprout wings or some shit like that. This forces me to look at my options, very few of which seem appealing with the exception of flying around and eating pollen all day.
My first option is to actually make use of the degree in philosophy I’ve supposedly been earning over the past few years and get a Ph.D. in philosophy. Unfortunately, until now the philosophy major has brought me nothing other than intermittent intellectual satisfaction and a lot of obnoxious questions. For the rest of my life, every fool who knows I studied philosophy will ask me, “What is the meaning of life.” I’m not sure I can stand it. I also fear for my health because of the second hand smoke I inhale on daily basis while leaving my classes. Studies have shown that taking two philosophy courses a semester is the equivalent of smoking two packs of filtered cigarettes a day. I am told that graduate seminars are the equivalent of two packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day. If these reasons weren’t enough to discourage me, I have a sneaking suspicion that I am just not smart enough to do what graduate students do.
I guess I could just keep my current job as a cashier at Tower Records. Despite the third world wages, working in the fiery depths of retail really isn’t all that bad. The people I work with are great and I get hella (perhaps hecka would be more appropriate in this context)… I get hecka free CDs. Unfortunately, the bulk of our customer base is composed of Telegraph maniacs, homeless people with mustard gas-like body odor, and every epsilon within Alameda County (this especially includes Cal students and professors). I am currently working on a study that will show that the magnetic security gates at the entrance of the store have an effect strangely similar to that of a lobotomy on everyone who passes through them. This explains the inane questions my coworkers and I have to put up with every day. Take for instance the Cal student who, in a frustrated tone, asked me how the store’s sections were organized. When I had the audacity to answer, “Alphabetically,” he gave me a look of disbelief, muttered a few angry words, and stormed out of the store. But despite the perks, I just don’t think I can spend the rest of my life or even the rest of the year having to reveal to customers the science behind the listening stations that will enable them to figure out which CD they are listening to.
These two dismal options leave me with no choice but to follow my last possible future: accidental death. I have never been the kind of person who would consider suicide. It just seems like such a passive thing to do. If I was ever so depressed that I could not go on with my life, I would be forced to do a much more assertive thing like go on a murderous rampage that would end in my death. I’ve always imagined running amok in a K-Mart with a machete as a viable way to go out. Unfortunately, I am a pacifist by nature and my mom took away my machete years ago. Since I can’t take my own life and I’m chicken, I need something take it from me without my knowing it. Basically, within the next year it’s in my best interest to get hit by a bus or have a steel girder fall on me. Yes, it sounds bleak, but I can assure you the idea of dying a random and senseless death at the age of 21 is a lot less frightening than the idea of dying an expected and meaningful death at age of 85 after a life of mediocrity.
To conclude, suicide may be painless, but graduation and accidental death certainly are not. Feel free join to me in my post-graduation plans. There’s plenty of room under the bus.
