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Just My Luck, I Bet Being Dead Sucks Worse Than Being Alive
If you’re anything like me, you often feel like being born was the worst possible thing that could have ever happened to you. Your job as an interchangeable cog executing menial tasks in a wealth machine owned by a privileged group of assholes who wouldn’t think twice about spending the annual salary they pay you for the specious privilege of keeping you and the ridiculous children you were careless and cruel enough to bring into this world of shit from starving to death on a gold plated cell phone is depressing enough, and then there are the other 120 or so hours in the week, which are even worse.
If you’re anything like me, you often find yourself praying for a heart attack, stray bullet or escaped zoo animal to provide a sudden, welcome release from your existence. Perhaps you consider Islamic freaks who blow up buildings less terrorists than brown skinned Santa Clauses with darker beards and different funny hats that deliver fiery presents of pardon from the prison of life to downtrodden adults too cowardly to do it themselves, but what if there is no salvation in death?
Just my luck, I bet being dead sucks worse than being alive.
That's right - no eternal rest for me, I wager. No infinite, perpetual blackness for this tired soul, I’d stake. That would be too magnanimous of whatever higher being has been getting his rocks off tormenting me for the last forty-four to four billion years. Instead, I’ll probably become a ghost in my own house where, for a lack of physical form or voice, will lose all control over the television, rendering me helpless to watch nothing but Hollywood gossip shows, Nine Inch Nails videos and Edward Scissorhands for the seven hundredth time beside my vampire daughter while my wife is softly screwing some new guy on my bed before my body is cold in the ground and my son is trying to break the world record for continuous masturbation next door.
Or there could be a hell, which would really suck, but not as bad as if there was some sort of mix up and I was put into heaven where I’d have to spend eternity singing Kumbaya and playing Candyland with a bunch of leukemia kids and toddlers decapitated in car accidents.
And to think, there’ll be no escape. Because you can’t even commit suicide – when you’re already dead.
Yeah, just great. Now I’m really bummed out. Guess that’s what I get for using my brain.