Have you ever wondered what it’d be like to fall down the stairs and snap your neck? Maybe you did it as a kid…the fallin’ down the stairs bit…not the neck snappin’ part. Maybe it was a marvel that you didn’t kill yourself if you were born in the 90s and earlier. I ain’t gonna sugarcoat it, but I feel that kids today are so damn spoiled that they’ve lost the thrill of goin’ outside, getting’ dirty, play outside and then if it’s a shitty day and full of rain, you go in and play video games. I dunno, somethin’ that just bothers me.
Anyway, I always liked doin’ somersaults down the stairs. Y’know, bein’ a fuckin’ tumbleweed goin’ down the stairs. Few times, though, I thought (later on in life) of makin’ it seem like that those damn stairs just had it out for me. It was making sure you had adequate life insurance, etc. and then take the step. You know when they’d say in cartoons or classic movies “Watch out, that last step is a doozy?” You get the picture. You have to make sure it’s a long series of stairs, not those short stub kind of stairs. They’re not long enough and do minimal damage. At least, that’s my opinion on ‘em.
Alright, so, I took a few spills in the home. I figured, at that time in particular, that life was rough, and I was in a bad spot as it was in life that it’d probably be better if I were out of the picture. The wife and I were at one another’s throats after we had been through a pretty damn rough spot. The medication the docs had prescribed wasn’t doin’ much for me, and well, I had about enough of it. So, I made sure my insurance policy was still up to date and checked the amount. $500,000 for one was not bad. I mean, then at least she’d have a lovely house, be better off without me, and I mean, yeah, I’d miss her and at that time, our first child together, but eh, I wasn’t myself. So, one day I took a spill. I had to make sure it looked like an accident. Either faulty stairs, hand rail, bad step or just an ‘oops’ moment. I apparently didn’t die then, since I am still tellin’ you the story of exactly where…and how things came to be. I will say, though, that I got fucked up pretty bad.
This time, though, I was already dead and in limbo, Hell, or whatever, so it didn’t matter. Hell, if I wanted to jump off the balcony and swing from the chandelier I could. I mean, yeah, sure I suffer the consequences for a moment or two…but I always come back. I’m like a cockroach on fuckin’ Viagra, just skull fuckin’ Life in the eye.
Alright, I digressed there… So I tried a few stairways—to heaven if you will—and of those four attempts, I was successful three of the four times. I even tried adding some flair to them too. Like jazz hands, mimicking the Wilhelm scream (even playing it, too) and a few other things.
The important thing to remember is that when you want to try breakin’ your neck on the way down…you’re goin’ to live through most, if not all, of the tumble. It’s not an easy task, nor is it fun. The point is this, it hurts. A lot. So each spill I’m breakin’ my wrist(s), leg(s), ankle(s), arm(s), and maybe, just maybe my neck. Layin’ there at the foot of the stairs with bones poppin’ out of my ankle, wrist, arm. Not too fuckin’ pleasant, I’ll tell ya what.
The comparison between hangin’ or takin’ a trip is pretty obvious. However, if you’re makin’ your loved ones left behind less financially burdened…well…it’s a nice choice. Most places void insurance payouts…y’know because of the suicide clause.
In the end, the results were I became a giant wad of paper. An oversized wad of bloody meat paper.