Disclaimer: I’m not actually suicidal. Quite the opposite, I’m doing better emotionally/mentally now than I have since the sixth grade. But I was musing today on the childish threats I’d issue years ago: "If I died, you’d be sorry!" (To which my mother would invariably reply, "But you’d be sorrier.") I spent a lot of time composing suicide notes- more for the dramatic effect than any death wish. In keeping with my morbid habits, I also planned my funeral the same way some girls plan their wedding. And it is with that in mind....

Dear Everybody,

This note is not to reassure those who love me, but to point fingers at those I feel had a hand in my tragic and untimely death. My Statistics class is first and foremost in my mind as I go gently into that good night. It was an unendurable trial, one that I could not bear. Why such unimaginable suffering should be meted to my already sorry lot, I do not know. I have done nothing to deserve such misery. O wretched, wretched me! And to those that required it of me, I shake my fist at you and call you muderous, you perniciosus so-called educators. Fie! That you would make a gentle artist and scholar subject themselves to the brutality of outliers and coordinate coefficients. Have you no pity? No speck of human kindness? You must have sucked bile from you mother’s breast to be so utterly calculatingly cruel.

To all others who were unkind to me, who didn’t do as I wished, who did coddle me and give me whatever I wanted.....this is your fault.