The note on the door asked people not to be sad and offered some information for dividing my posessions. They're so futile anyway, considering that they only really meant something when they were mine (after all, now I'm gone, the fact that they were mine will give them a certain power and reverence that they most certainly do not deserve), but some folks really like mementos of things they would do better to forget.

But anyway. I died rather unremarkably after passing out from extreme blood loss (painting the drab walls a million shades of red with the draining life force in one last sick moment of macabre pleasure, as if to make one last twisted joke at the world - the smiley face was going a bit far, I suppose), not the best way to die but still preferable to many methods (or so I hear). I remember floating for a bit, just kind-of wandering around until, all of a sudden, the cord finally snapped and I found myself standing in my room, watching as the paramedics, RAs and policemen (as well as countless stoned floormates and a couple highly distraught dear friends) milled about, gawking at the sight and pocketing interesting things in some cases. I scoffed to myself at the prospect that nothing at all had changed, but deep down, I knew that I meant very little in the GRAND scheme of things.

You wouldn't believe it from the news blitz, though. In a sleepy little town like this, if you take an effort to be nice to people and be yourself, you get noticed; if you do something as big and crazy as what I did, you would most certainly get media attention. There were some tribute items in the newspaper and television crews from Denver even covered the grisly details. Something about an artist's death makes his art a million times more valuable or such. I must say I had better things to turn my attentions to than the dozy half-asleep television personnel as they paraded through the morbid crimson-stained quarters I formerly physically inhabited.

That's when it got a little weird. People started taking specific pieces of paper, talking about how the blood-stained schedule or the red-speckled Amish Vomit Keggers list spoke to deeper, more troubling issues inherent in our modern society. After that, people took the coffeemaker, my D and D character sheets, my banana, and then sections of my wall, all for the sake of reverence of this horrendous force of chaos that drove me to the utmost of despair in such a violently artistic matter.

The pieces were auctioned at Sotheby's, eventually. I felt rather proud at that - clever use of distance haunting ensured I was present at the auctions - but it all seems so pointless in the end. All I did was knife myself and bitch about how much I hated everything and why in my own vital fluids while my body slowly spooged itself to death.

Looking back on the experience, I suppose that, if I were still alive today, I would probably tell myself to get some sleep and don't feel bad about getting a little smoochy when the mood hits, but overall, you don't really have to be dead to be truly appreciated - it just helps tremendously.

Oh well. There are some decisions you can't go back on, and I suppose it all worked out for the best.

~AYRN