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I tried to kill myself in 1965. I wasn’t very good at it.

For one, while I have since learned that the lethal dose of regular 75 mg aspirins lies on the far side of 500 tablets, I attempted my lethal feat with 121 of the little darlings (yes, I kept a tally).

For two, I did lose my nerve late that fatal afternoon, and alerted my dad to my Bayeresque overindulgence.

This is not to say that this was not an interesting exercise, it was. I was quite sincerely banging on that dark and final door—truly expecting it to open—not suspecting that it would take at least four times as many of these little white, bitter tablets to even begin to pry it open. I’ve since learned that people have even survived a thousand or two of them, when treated swiftly and correctly—but who on earth would have the time, or patience, to pop two thousand aspirin? By the time you’re done with the second thousand the first will have worn off: you see my problem? Definitely the wrong suicide medium.

Be that, however, as it may: blissfully ignorant that my undertaking (yes, pun intended) would only lead to a few months of ringing ears, as I rounded the even century of these bitter pills, I was certain I’d face Mr. Reaper in short, and relatively painless, order.

Why did I do it?
Why, to get even, of course. And to place the blame for his son’s premature demise squarely on my dad’s shoulders.

Were there any other reasons?

Well, if truth be told, I was also a little curious.

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