2007-10-20 - 1:50 a.m.
Today, dear blog-a-licious blog, I attended a memorial service for a friend of my family who was a quite well thought of academic, a professor of 19th English literature at a Cal State University somewhere in the Valley. She had written books and delivered lectures and she was rather a friend to my mother, being a family guest every Thanksgiving for something like the last 9 years. And then, two weeks ago, the poor lady grabbed her handgun and shot herself through the heart, leaving her Papillion puppy just outside the door, whining and wailing. Well, at least she remembered to shut the door, for if she had not, the dog would have been gnawing on her body like it was a piece of raw short rib.
The thing about suicide is that it really is a ridiculous thing to do, I have to tell you. I mean, what, don’t you think you’re going to be dead long enough? Why are you hurrying the process along? It just seems ridiculous to me. I mean, if you are dead, you are dead and that’s that. If you are alive, even if your life sucks, there is the chance that tomorrow, someone will let you suck his huge cock, or you can have a nice rump roast, or there might be a great new episode of DOCTOR WHO to watch. Killing oneself makes no sense to me – and I assure you, I tend to being depressed.
It is unclear why this pleasant college professor shot herself through the heart, simply because it turns out that she had a large number of secrets that no one knew about – and which she presumably will take to her grave. It appears that no one knew the lady outside of academic circles, and yet, there are hints that she had an extremely active private life – but one which none of the people who knew her “publicly” were privy. She had a huge shock of blonde hair and rode a Harley Davidson. She had a boyfriend named Ralph, supposedly also a biker dude, whom no one ever saw or met. And she loved her guns. And Jane Austen. She loved Jane Austen, too. Jane Austen and guns.
She shot herself through her heart, and, really, no one knows why. But it’s interesting: I read it in a script, once. Men shoot themselves through their heads, while women shoot themselves through their hearts. Seemingly, when a man shoots himself, he does it out of such rage that part of his motivation is simply to destroy the center of himself, i.e., his face. A woman, on the other hand, is invariably sure that she wants to make sure that her corpse is fairly beautiful. So she’ll shoot herself through the heart, which will leave her pretty face untouched.
The memorial was a very polite and dignified affair, with speaker after speaker noting her impeccable educational credentials and describing her beloved dog. Yet, as I listened, it became clear to me that no one really knew her. The portrait of her was like a Japanese box, covered with lots of wrapping, but containing nothing inside. We never got to her soul. There was a huge gap and a space where, probably, her real life existed. But we shall not find out about it, I daresay, because she kept everything quite compartmentalized.
This I will say: At my memorial, if they serve sandwiches from Ralphs, I shall rise from the grave and throttle whoever is throwing the shin dig. And, another thing, given that the lady killed herself, wouldn’t have been a bit handier to have the big ole party in her honor BEFORE she committed suicide? If they had, perhaps she might not have killed herself! I mean, really. Think about that.
