Doc Brown’s Suicide Note
Last
night I tried to take my own life. Tonight, I think I shall make another
attempt at it, futile as it may be. So, I won’t bore you with any, “Oh, woe is
me. I can’t take this life any more. Nobody loves me,” and all that lachrymose
fodder. You know the drill. It’s pathetic.
So,
here I’m going to list some things that’ll help you understand why this time I
might succeed in my effort to bring that proverbial chalk outline to my
struggles.
1.
I have hidden or smashed or turned off any clocks or other timekeeping devices.
Even my wristwatch is kaput. It suffered a baseball bat to the solar plexus. No
counting away the minutes for me. No waiting or stalling because of some
preconfigured notion that a certain amount of time has to pass. No distraction
of numbers moving forward, always more to come, one after the next, counting
down the ways that I just don’t got the nerve for such stuff as a felo-de-se
requires. I mean it. Total disassociation from time.
2.
I gave away Einstein, my only companion these days. Some kind old duffer (not
so unlike myself) with a broad (if not annoying) sense of wellbeing was good
enough to take in the orphaned pooch for what he believed to be a short while.
No more barks to alert the neighbors if things go haywire, or don’t, for that
matter.
3.
There are no more raisins in the butter dish.
4.
The flux capacitor in my heart has fluxed its last stream of hope, and there
just aren’t enough gigawatts in my name to fuel any sort of escape. And the
DeLorean in my gut’s been sold for scrap.
5.
Attenuated pluvial settings, in and out of not-so-great Scotts over scattered
yesterdays in realms of rocket-launcher-wielding Libyans, and all that, will
keep me to it. Yes, all that. I’ve got replete stores of more esoteric and
maddening calculations up in my dome than even Wernher von Braun could fathom;
and being hardwired for more, well, it takes its toll-- hence, ergo, to wit:
more than a few reasons up there for me to succeed.
6.
The stultifying effect of Clara’s memory haunts me more and more with each
rotation of the earth. If it were not for her…
7.
I am wearing eel-skin boots, which always assures a good go of it for me in
general.
8.
This morning I sighed to the window shade, “Marty, oh Marty, where’ve you been?
I’ve been all alone in this world since Nineteen and Ten.” That must be
prescient of events to come.
9.
God is not yet dead, but will be declared so imminently, if history holds true;
and I’d rather beat him to it, you know?
10.
I ran into Leopold Stokowksi in the street yesterday. We both ogled each other
with a feverish abandon, as if being caught by a stranger looking too closely
at one’s own reflection. For whatever reason I bowed deeply at the waist and then
darted off shouting, “Olga! Olga! My sweet Olga!” It is hard to be sure, but I
believe that he will never marry, now, and for this I feel deeply responsible,
if not wholly to blame.
11.
I am my own time paradox now, and can concentrate my full efforts on destroying
my own Ich Und Du,
instead of the universe of others.
12.
The treasure (and, therefore, horror) of my escape has reached a pinnacle.
Nobody is left to miss me. I will not, even here, let on about the mode of my
departure from this sapphire marble of an oblate spheroid I’ve been calling
home. This, my one final secret, will be the encouragement, I believe, to go
through with this, one last great-motherfucking-Scott, at last. At last.
Nobody, nobody, will know the ultimate bounds and means of my escape.
13.
I am feeling rather lucky.
That
about does it. I hope that this note is not read by my future self. But,
really, it wouldn’t matter. There’s nothing one can do to obscure or prevent
the course of events that will greedily lap up one’s reconnaissance over time
and space and all the glitter and doom between it all. I will end this way,
always, alternate histories be damned. There is no such thing. We are all one
insane streaming complexity rocketing madly through undiscoverable galaxies,
all together, unalterable courses aside, we hunker down and remain, or do not,
by a choice that is not just our own, together-- everything is, and there’s not
a damn thing anybody can do about it.
Mediocre
Regards, And Thanks For All The Plutonium,
Doc
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