View high resolution
Regarding Charity Concerts:
To Write Love on Her Arms is an organization that is dedicated to the noble cause of Suicide Prevention. At least, that’s what they claim to be about. Their website seems to be devoted to selling t-shirts to guys with sleeve-tattoos, pierced noses, and a large collection of all-weather slouchy beanies. If you didn’t want to kill yourself, a quick perusal of their website, and the good-looking smiling young people that it features, should have you wanting to die in no time.
The local chapter of this too-hip-to-be-effective organization sponsored a concert earlier this evening at a venue I frequent. I happened to be in the area and, as is sometimes the case, I kind of wanted to die.
What Good Fortune!
Instead of suffering in silence I would be able to enjoy an evening of music and camaraderie. Unfortunately, the music was terrible. Really bad. To be fair, I only saw one band, but they were horrendous. A five-piece neo-eunich-indie-dissonance outfit from Tempe. They seemed out-of-practice. Their singer seemed lost most of the time, as though he had walked in on the middle of the song everyone else was playing. It was a Shit Show.
Too make it worse, the crowd Loved it. Absolutely loved it. They danced, and cheered, and whooted throughout the obviously dreadful set. They looked a great deal like the people featured on the To Write Love on Her Arms website. They looked happy and well-adjusted. They seemed enthusiastic about life. They looked like smug too-cool-for-school-christians. They were all young and did not seem to need a night of good music and camaraderie. They seemed quite happy to go to an event where the volume of the music made speaking impossible.
I am something of a Performer, by which I mean I used to be quite good. I have never been able to generate the sort of response those five dildos from Tempe did earlier tonight. Oh, how I hated them.
After enduring 30ish minutes of this disheartening scene I said my goodbyes to my associates. It went something like this:
Me: “Is this a Suicide Prevention Benefit?”
He: “Yeah.”
Me: “This might be a bit too much, but I’m going to say it anyway. Being at this show has dramatically increased my desire to kill myself.”
He: “Wow. That is a bit much”.
Then I walked out.
Ever the Contrarian, I marched out into the snowy night full of the sort of suicidal rage the event was intended to assuage. I was furious and sad.
Who were these young people to talk about suicide and isolation, they seemed to have a great deal of enthusiasm for life?
They were mostly college freshmen, the world is theirs for the taking. They are at the easiest and most enjoyable part of their lives. Fuck I hated them.
Soon they’ll be working at their father’s law firm or their mother’s dental practice.
What’s their credit situation? How’s their work history?
It seemed to me that the only one there who has ever seriously considered ending their own life was me.
The Picture of Mark Twain is not really related to this post.
Also, I am reckless in my use of commas.