The Black Parade (Twitter stylee)

Okay. So this guy Nick Starr posts a series of suicidal posts to Twitter, culminating in this one:

alright this is it. Parked my car. I wish everyone who ever was nice to me well. See you in the next life

This leads a a few people to wonder if he’s actually alive or not, or if Twitter has hosted its first suicide note. A few days later, his friend posts that he’s alive and kicking:

Drew and I just got off the phone with Nick Starr. He is ok and is getting help. He thanks everyone for all their positive well wishes and asks that you will respect his privacy right now as he works through a difficult time.

I’m sorry. His what?

Personally, I’ve dealt with deep and chronic depression my entire life. I’ve done some deeply stupid and embarrassing things because of it. But even at my absolute worst, I’ve never even felt the urge to post my pathetic, failed suicide attempts on fucking Twitter. Christ, at my most miserable, I’ve never posted a “Goodbye, cruel world” blog post — because a) deep down I know better than to off my stupid self, and even if I didn’t, b) I have a little more respect and concern for the people who do care about me than to inform them of my leap into the infinite via a fucking content management system. Suicide notes are bad enough. A suicide post — Christ, what a twat.

And then, when he decides he doesn’t want to get his Hart Crane on after all, this prick asks everyone to respect his privacy? He wants the whole world to read the tragic decay of his crumbling psyche via the deep and meaningful medium of Twitter — which is like crack for the sort of terminally self-obsessed and narcissistic assholes who really think anybody outside their sex partners and their mommies give a shit about their moment-to-moment movements — and then, when he realizes he actually wants to live…now he wants to go through his dark night of the soul with a little privacy and dignity?

Fuck off, boyo. You acted like a prick. It’s okay — it happens, God knows I’ve done it more times than I can count — and I do honestly empathize with anyone going through this particular hell. I have been there, so many times.

But have the goddamn sack to pull out your little futurephone and post a little sumthin’-sumthin’. Maybe “Hey, I’m alright, I was having a fucked up time, I’m sorry I worried everybody. Drinks are on me next time.” Take some responsibility for your actions. I’ve had to make that phone call more than once. “Hey, dude, sorry I turned into Ian Curtis last night. Thanks for talking me down.” It happens if you’re a depressive person. And the people who care about you will understand, provided you show even the slightest concern for their feelings. Don’t leave ’em hanging. (No pun intended.)

(Of course, it might just be that nobody really gives a fuck about this guy. After all, he was pretty much Twittering his whole suicide twitch for at least a couple of hours beforehand. He even mentions a place to do it from. You’d think somebody might have shown up at the bridge with a six pack and a shoulder to cry on. Maybe that’s what actually happened, I dunno.)

More and more, all of these social apps just make me sick to my stomach. There’s too much forced intimacy, and way too much information going around about things that ought to remain private and secret. I don’t want to know these things about the people around me.

And you have my promise, world — no matter how absolutely shitty and hideous the world gets, I will never off myself and inform you of it via the Internet. Scout’s honor.

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