I'm not here to laugh at suicide, but when having a spot of lunch (get me, they don't have lunch in Thatto Heath) with a couple of friends the other day we did stumble upon an amusing anecdote that is loosely related to the theme.
Many years ago I came home from a night out in town feeling utterly terrible. Events had conspired against me (which they seemed to every week but usually I was more philosophical about it) and so I decided I didn't want to feel anything any more. At this point an important distinction is necessary. I didn't want to die, or even be hospitalised or anything of such gravity. I just didn't want to feel anything. I ended up feeling a twat.
Now my mother doesn't normally stock the kind of drugs that provide what I needed and so as I was living with her at the time I had to make do and mend. I went to the medication drawer (everyone has one, don't they?) and could only find a packet of Sudafed. To this day I am not entirely sure what Sudafed is meant to do. I think it is something to do with nasal congestion but it might just as easily be a remedy for the Bubonic Plague.
What I do know about it is that it does not kill you. At least it did not kill me. I took somewhere between six and eight tablets (I can't accurately recall, it was a long time ago, which is a defence I swear by) and was soon fast asleep. And so it had the desired effect you might think. Well yes, until you consider that for three days afterwards my head was spinning like Lord Mandelson on Speed (or Sudafed) and that everything seemed to be happening at three times it's normal pace. This was most disconcerting and was enough to ensure I have not repeated the exercise since.
These are the kind of things I laugh at when I go for lunch with my mates. Seriously, there is something very wrong with me.