Bob Drives a Hard Bargain: A Suicidalist’s Approach About Driving

A suicidalist’s approach on how they drove into a tree, a wall, jumped out of fast moving vehicles & more. It’s an in-depth look at depression & suicide.

We continuing our exploration of suicide, depression, anxiety, and PTSD with our good friend, Bob. As I mentioned before, Bob is a sort of. . .projection—if you will—of myself. If you hadn’t reached that conclusion yet, well, spoilers.

During my massive amounts of contemplation and self-reflection, I came across multiple times of where I began having, what normal folks would say, unnatural thoughts. Thoughts of suicide, killing myself, hurting others. Not murderous intentions, no. It was more so. . .punishment. A sort of discipline. Though, I suppose that would be a way of saying “that is a gateway to doing bad things.” Sure, why not? Let’s appease the masses.

What some of the many thoughts were, including but not limited to: what would it be like to jump out of a high-speed vehicle and get hit by a truck? What’s keeping me from going out and “playing in traffic?” There were a lot of “what” and “why” questions and scenarios. It was something that needed to be explored. Being the adventurous type that I am, I decided to follow up.

Now, I gain a lot of inspiration and imagery from my dreams and my nightmares. I’ve done astral projection, lucid dreaming, and just regular “let’s see what happens” dreams/nightmares. As such, I reenacted some of these questions. Felt the pain in some, watched the aftermath, looked at the people who either drove into me, a family left behind, survivors, etc. It was gaining perspective on the WHOLE picture. Not just the itty bitty “OK, here we go. Let’s do this!” picture. It’s something alright. It’s meant to be gritty, harsh, and well, to the point. As we go on with the other episodes, we’ll go into more details.

The following episode of The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal is in three parts. This explores getting run over, jumping out of fast flying vehicles, colliding into a tree, etc. It’s all there.

So, check it out. We’ll explore another episode tomorrow.

Until then. . . Stay safe out there.

RJM


The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal

Episode 4 – Truckin’ [Part One]

Hidy ho, folks. I’m here to spread to you the good word. What word you ask? Well, lemme tell ya all about it. Death, and with that notion. . .suicide: hangin’, slit wrists, gunshot wounds (head to toe), train, plane, and what leads me to. . .automobiles!

Yeah, I know it’s not my best Ned Flanders, but fuck it, I don’t care. So, here I was driving down US-127, and the thought came to my mind. I wonder what it’s like to hit that median goin’ full out on the road? There was also the idea of what it’d be like to hit a utility pole, a tree, that huge ass puddle of standin’ water full speed ahead, Captain. The one though that kept creepin’ on me was what it’d be like to get hit by a Mack Truck.

I mean, sure there are clips of people becomin’ mush or soup on the internet, along with some lovely photos for your scrapbook. But you don’t know how it feels. That was the ticket for me. Well, there was no one in the car with me. I mean I am an asshole, but I am not that kind of twat that would kill himself and then leave his wife and kids to scream (and probably die) while he enjoys his demise again. So, you sick fucks get that thought out of your minds.

Now then, what happened was I pulled over on the side of the road. I even did that whole courtesy thing of putting on the hazard lights and stuff. Well, I got out and made it seem like I was gettin’ ready to change my tire or pop the hood and make it look like I was in distress. Well, I ended up gettin’ some guy to stop and help me out. I had told the guy no thanks and that I was okay. Well, I guess he was a do-gooder or somethin’ because he was pretty damn adamant about helpin’ out dear old Bob. Honestly

Honestly, it made me want to die a lot quicker than it was draggin’ out to be. So, I took note of the semi that was comin’ up real fast. I had to time it right, though, ya see because I didn’t want to give the guy much time to stop, let alone alert the other drivers that I had a death wish.

Finally, ‘Big Bertha’ as she was called, let’s just say her and I got acquainted real quick. Pow! Right in the kisser, the jewels, everything. I kissed that grill pretty good I’ll admit, and I gave that old girl a fresh new paint job.

I felt sorry for the guy who tried to help, bless his goody-two-shoes’ heart. He tried to stop me. . .and his kids saw a random guy go splat all over the interstate. Bottom line I guess is be careful who you try to help out, and if someone wants to die. . .they’re goin’ to find a way. Life has that sort of thing where things happen a particular way.

By the way, if you’re wonderin’ what I felt when I got smashed to mush? Nothin’ much, just a whole lot of force, a brief sensation of pain, and then lights out.

Truckin’ [Part Two]

Now, I know what you’re thinkin’. “Bob, why are you so selfish? Doin’ all these heinous acts and subjectin’ people to this kind of nonsense.”

Well, guess what? It ain’t your life or your story to tell, bub. That’s what. Besides that I already said that I felt regret in the fact of havin’ my kids, my wife, parents, so on, and on, and fuckin’ on, all of them watch me die. Well, the people that mattered, and the innocents that I kind of ruined. But hey, if they don’t see it now, they’ll do it themselves, one day, or they’ll find one of their friends hangin’ from a beam in the middle of a room, or their throat slit, gunshot to their head, dead in a bathtub. Face it, folks; it’s the real world. These things can and do happen.

Now, I wouldn’t say that this is an ‘educational experience’ or whatever. . .well it is for me I guess, but that’s beside the point.

Now then, let me get back on track of the one time I wondered what it’d be like to hit a telephone pole, a tree, and a brick wall full speed.

As I said before, I get these itches. They can range from anythin’, sometimes from an idea, act, hunger, so on and so forth. Who knows why I do, and what the cause is, but I find myself entertained by it sometimes, so why not.

Well, I had one when I was drivin’ down the old main drag here. I thought I wonder what it’d be like to hit a tree. Just full out. Trees are pretty tough old broads; they’ve been around for awhile, right? I drove down the street. . .found one that I liked on the edge of town. Hell, I even got out and looked ‘er over. There were even a few couple’s names carved into the bark. Ha!

Well, what happened next was I got in the car, drove down into town, and waited until the night had settled in good and well. I started comin’ in fast. I ended up catchin’ the attention of a local cop, which I mean, props really. The guy was doin’ his job. Tax dollars at work there, I was glad to see it in action. I came around that bend and found that tree. I met that sappy tree bastard right quick.

For added effect, I tried without my seatbelt on and well, in short, that sucked. A lot. The force of hittin’ the tree wasn’t the thing that did me in. That wasn’t as bad as going over the steering wheel, gettin’ caught on it, smashin’ through the windshield, smackin’ the hood of the car and the tree, and then breakin’ an arm between the tree and the car. Yeah. That was a lot of fuckin’ fun. Five out of five would never do that again.

Honestly, it was more painful than when I basically repeated the same thing, but instead, I wore my seatbelt and kissed a telephone pole (though, one trial I did without). Same cop mind you. Nice guy. He was even there until the end for me. If I remember, I outta write the precinct he’s at and say he deserves a commendation. Anyway, the three results of the telephone pole incident were this. . .

  • Outcome one (and two): My insides became a stew, with broken ribs, sternum, snapped neck, bleeding on the brain, and jello for brains. Mmm mmm, tasty. Bill Cosby would approve. That was all before the electric line came down and started a fire. Once, I was trapped and left to burn to a crisp. The other, I was pulled out and pronounced dead on the spot due to all the internal bleedin’ and shit.
  • Outcome three: No seatbelt, see above for huggin’ a tree. Just more limbs got bent, and I took out a few blocks of power.

Now, I know. . .they’re not that excitin’ as kissin’ a Mack truck and whatnot. I got some more bad news bears for ya, folks. Ramming a brick wall ain’t that excitin’ either.

Alright, so basically, there’s an abandoned factory in town, right? It’s just sittin’ there doin’ nothin’. Well, out of the kindness of my heart because no one else needs to go down for my stupidity, I figured it was my safest bet.

I couldn’t go balls out floorin’ it through the town to get to it, so I improvised. I led the cops on a little chase around the block. . .y’know the kind. . .Joker style, the uh, Heath Ledger one. . .that one scene. Anyway, once I had their attention and knew no one was goin’ to be followin’ (essentially) I drove straight to the factory. I made my sprint across the parking lot, hit that wall and it all came down.

That’s right. I came for a brick wall, and I got the whole shebang. A good portion of that factory landed on me, but it was alright. My trial was concluded, and I reached the verdict of never again, would I ram a brick wall. . .or a buildin’. Suffocatin’ is one of my least favorite ways to go, let alone bein’ crushed to death, but hey, it’s all part of the learnin’ experience. Ya know what I mean?

Truckin’ [Part Three]

So I’ve hugged a few trees, kissed a few telephone poles, and rammed a brick wall. I bet you’re wonderin’ “Bob, what the hell is wrong with you? Why all the self-hate, loathin’, and bein’ a menace to society.” Well, Jack, if one of you’s name is Jack. . .and it probably is, if I wanted to sound like a fuckin’ broken record, I’d record my all this, leave it playin’ on loop for eternity. It’d make those 10 or 100 hours of Epic Sax Guy look like nothin’. Not that I have anythin’ against Epic Sax Guy, it’s just you can only take so much until your head pops. As for bein’ a menace to society, just look at your election and the what the news outlets want to keep you distracted from. There’s a whole lot more menacin’ out there than your dear old Bob.

Speakin’ of pops, I know today’s a magical day for all those dads out there. Whether they’re a grandad, pop, or even one to be. Ah, I gotta say, I could care less for the over glorified Hallmark shitfest of a holiday. It’s lost its meanin’ to us all. And for all those who can’t share the day because they’re dead, overseas, whatever. I am sorry for your loss, but you’ll have to turn to someone else. While I can spend it with my kids, I know that I am actually not spendin’ it with my kids. You know what I mean? But I suppose in the spirit of being where the fuck ever, happy father’s day to all you mother fuckers. Congrats. You got a lady knocked up, had ’em pop out a few kids. Alright, alright, I’m just gonna move along here instead of bein’ a sourpuss.

So, on one of my many adventures of findin’ out the best way to die via motor vehicle, I think probably one of the more sightseein’, or rather exotic, was drivin’ off a cliff. Great stuff, 10 out of 10, would do it again. In fact, I did do it again, a few times in fact. It’s like a rollercoaster and that gut in your mouth feelin’. You’re expectin’ to have that sudden jerk motion pullin’ you, but you never do. Instead, you plummet X amounts of feet to your death. You get tossed around like a dummy (pun intended) that missed the fuckin’ crash wall and is just flailin’ their arms about like some crazed lunatic. Meanwhile, while you’re flailin’ around like said lunatic, you insides are gettin’ crushed by the sheer force, and no matter how fuckin’ soft you think your seats are, your ass is broken. Your jello brain is soup. . .a bloody soup at that. While your insides are now a hefty, hearty sized stew that’s literally stewing. . .in you. . .you’re an oversized Ziploc container of man stew.

Now, you’d be lucky if maybe on one those great forceful jerks that would knock you out, so you don’t get the joy of slowly dyin’. That’s a luxury, though. It’s all about chance at that point really. Each thud you’re pullin’ off the top of the deck hopin’ by that time you’ll just pass the fuck out. Nevermind that you potentially could burst into flames, get barbecued and (or) start a fire that burns a bit of acreage of the forest. Ah, the shit that happens.

There was another idea while on my many plummets down the side of. . .whatever mountain it was. You always wanted to fly like Superman. Take to the skies, be a hero. Well, that’s where you go drivin’ with your seatbelt off. Hell, you can even plant a heavy ass rock, cinder block, whatever, on the accelerator, cling to the roof, let go. . .and just fly.

Now, you’re in for a real treat here, folks. Because you’re not gonna get tossed about while inside a metal can anymore. Oh no, you’re going to be kissin’ a lot of things with your mouth and your ass. And while you’re kissin’ every boulder, rock, shrub, tree, and God knows what else on your trip down the mountain, you’re going to be hopin’ that you stayed in that car. Granted, some trees wouldn’t give, and you could just splatter against them. The problem is that when you finally land, you might still be alive. Then a hungry wild animal that loves them some fresh meat come wanderin’ by. Circle of Life I suppose.

So there you have it. Drivin’ off cliffs by dear old Bob.

I guess I’ll throw in the honorable mention of when I was going to drive off a cliff, I had a change of heart—was weird really. I skidded on the pavement for a good distance, since you know, I wanted to ‘go the distance’ when I went off the side of the cliff. Well, I got acquainted with the pavement, and she ground me down to bits and pieces, chunks and a long ass red streak on the highway. I wouldn’t recommend kissin’ the curb either, folks.

THE CHRONICLES OF BOB: THE CHRONIC SUICIDAL IS A WRITING PROJECT BY ROBERT J. S. T. MCCARTNEY, HERE AT A.B. NORMAL PUBLISHING.
THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION.

Author: Sincados

Writer, gamer, foodie, brew enthusiast, and awesome dad. Also likes to make explosions...but not in any particular order.

1 thought on “Bob Drives a Hard Bargain: A Suicidalist’s Approach About Driving”

  1. Reblogged this on Robert J. S. T. McCartney and commented:

    Here we are once again, continuing a side project of mine done as an online story: The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal. This particular take is where one may have the impulse to wonder what it would be like to jump out of a fast moving vehicle, or hitting a tree head on, and the sort.

    It’s the story of a depressed individual and the events leading up to the ultimate end. I suggest checking it out.

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