So, as I stated in my author blog post regarding my revisiting of my two favorite penned series: The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God and The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal.
As I stated before, The Chronicles of Bob was a series I was writing where I was struggling with my depression and anxiety. I had finished moving out of state, had not seen a therapist in awhile, it was the late Winter months (where a lot had happened to me in my life), and I had no friends around.
A random thought occurred to me, where I had an image of a man sitting at a dinner table with his family: kids, wife, parents, etc. He then just kills himself. Right there. He takes a knife and slits his own throat, where the blood sprays over the white walls and family members. It was something that stuck with me for a while.
As such, I created this series. It was a nice, fun, experimental way to explore death, suicide, murder, and other taboo of subjects.
This particular “episode” was an experience at Denny’s. You can check it out below. I will be coming back to episode 3 this week.
Until then, take care.
The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal
by Robert J. S. T. McCartney
Episode 2: Brenner at Denny’s
Denny’s. . .
Honestly, you can’t go wrong with Denny’s. I mean, yeah, sure, some of you sad saps might be either on the side of “HELL YEAH, DENNY’S!” while some others are all about stayin’ as far away from the place. Well, to those that say the latter, to hell with ya, and I’ll piss in your coffee (and if you want some creamer with that, well, I’m happy to oblige).
Now, I had decided on a few of the times of my comin’ back to go to my local Denny’s joint to have a Grand Slam (or two, or three). Hell, I lost count. Whatever the count was, it was a lot of fuckin’ pancakes, sausage, bacon, eggs, and everything that could give you a heart attack. I think I poured on a good bottle of syrup too. I dunno, it’s all a bit hazy around then.
I know, I know, you’re probably wonderin’ “Bob, what the fuck does this have to do with Denny’s, and your multiple attempts (and successful ones) with suicide? Well, if ya let me finish, I will be more than glad to tell ya all about it.
So, here I am sittin’ at the corner booth in the back. Not a soul around me, save for the waitress, who, bless her heart was so overworked, she was probably on the verge of a breakdown. I mean, she was cute, but I wasn’t interested in tryin’ to start somethin’ because God only knows where I (really) was and what the fuck was going with my life.
I think her name was Betty or somethin’ like that. Anyway, I could go on with how she was a young mom, had a cute walk and all that jazz, but why bother? It wasn’t like I’d be seein’ her or any other of the sad fucks in there again. What happened was this: I gave her a hell of an order, one that would make several homeless folk cry with joy. Why? Well, because when you order a shit ton of food and you’re just starvin’ out of your fuckin’ mind, you want to eat, eat, and fuckin’ eat.
So, she kept bringin’ my orders out I kept eatin’. And eatin’. And eatin’. Eventually, I ate (and drank) so much, that my face smashed right down on the fork that went into my eye and buried itself deep in my skull. I was diabetic. . .I guess I still am. I dunno if it was the diabetes—the blood sugar—or maybe because my stomach exploded. I dunno, it wasn’t the first time in the case that I died in similar fashion. Now, I hate to say that she probably didn’t appreciate a dead customer on her watch, but well. . .I remember before the darkness hearin’ her flippin’ her lid, goin’ on about how some hundred-dollar tab was goin’ right out the window. Part of me was a bit sad that I skipped out on the bill. The other part of me was still just so damn hungry.
In any case, you may be sayin’ “But Bob, you didn’t commit suicide here. . .you just. . .died.” Well, if engorgin’ yourself until you either:
- A) Pass out from all the shit you’ve eaten onto your fork, on purpose. . .
- B) Fuck you, why do you care?
- C) Because I was so damn tired of hearin’ other peoples’ problems, which seemed so damn minuscule to mine that I just wanted to kill myself again, and skip out on the bill, and give everyone a real show. . .
Yeah, it was a combination of all the above.
So, here I am. . .back in bed. A brand new day is here, ripe for the pickin’, and well. . .I haven’t the slightest of what to do yet. Either way, I’m goin’ to be around this fuckin’ place for a while.
Jesus Christ, I am so hungry. . .