Suicide Note

Dear Family and Police,

By the time you read this you will have found my body and you will know how I killed myself. I do not have that luxury. In front of me are a number of tools I have chosen to help me bring about my death. First of all, there's Timothy's gun. I borrowed it from him on Thursday. I told him what I was borrowing it for and he seemed fine with it. Said he'd pick it up at the funeral, could Phyllis bring it with her? I don't know about that guy. I don't know about the gun, either. I may use it or I may not. Would make a horrible mess. Phyllis wouldn't like that. There's a butcher knife, but that's just for show. I mean, could you see me slashing my throat? Not likely. I'd go for the wrists, but aren't you supposed to use razor blades for that? Since I grew a beard and Phyllis stopped shaving her legs, we don't keep them around anymore. There's rat poison AND sulfuric acid. I can tell you, I'm not looking forward to either of those. There's a good chance neither would make it past my uvula, and then where would I be? Sick and mouthless, I'd wager. I've got a hammer and an icepick. I figure one quick blow to the heart would get the job done. I'm leaning that way since it's unique. At least, I've never heard of it being done. Might make the papers or the news at five. Bet it'd hurt, though. There's the car in the garage, but it's got a vacuum leak in the intake. Might stall. I guess I really don't have too many good choices. What's here and works is either too messy or too painful or both. I just don't know yet. But I'll figure it out. You will too, easily enough.

Stan

P.S. I just couldn't take it anymore.