it'd be a wonderful life. if it didn't have fucking YOU in it.

Dear i+i:
I get feeling really blue around the holidays. Seems to get worse every year. Can you recommend anything that might help? - Sad Elf


ian: Sure thing, SE. First off: if you need reading specs, go fetch 'em now, cause I'd sure hate for you miss this:


KILL YOURSELF.


Kill yourself right now. 


Let me be clear: this is not a wake up call. This is not a slap in the face to give you perspective. I'm not Clarence the fucking angel, and I'm not Jacob fucking Marley. The only reason Clarence would jump in after you is to hold your fucking head underwater, and Jacob Marley would visit you for the sole purpose of choking the fucking life out of you with his ghost chains. My earnest recommendation is that you take your own life - like this second. Tonight. I am not even kidding - this should not be your resolution for the year, it should be your resolution for the next 90 minutes or so.


Which reminds me: check your calendar there, son. If you're feeling "really blue" - it's 1946 where you are and you're already not alive anymore. So put away your ghost typewriter and quit bothering the living.


I want you to go to your medicine cabinet, snag that bottle of Percocet® from when you fucked up your back last fall and the rest of the Tylenol PM® you got, take every tablet in there. No water. Chew 'em. Then down a pint of Popov Vodka® - room temperature. Now go to your closet and carefully remove the dry cleaning bag from the single Men's Wearhouse® suit you own. Put the bag over your greasy face. Take off your belt and put it around your neck. Pull it tight as a tourniquet. Now die. Quick like a bunny. Scoot, you hear?
Because here's the news, Chief: everybody on the face of the fucking earth gets depressed around the holidays. What we do not fucking need is another jagoff like you bellyaching about it. The holidays are the most efficient depression-delivery system known to man. The holidays are the emotional equivalent of loading a turkey baster with anthrax and squirting that shit in your eye. There's actually no such THING as "Seasonal Affective Disorder" - it's the fucking holidays. Dreading their approach, suffering through them, the grisly emotional hangover. If they do not cause you to stare into the face of your the bleak and comical little shit show you've made of your life and the pointless end that awaits you, then you are:

1. Developmentally disabled.
2. Dead already.
3. All of the above. 

I feel compelled to emphasize: in most cases, I have counseled AGAINST suicide, since my dad killed himself in '86. In your case, however, I consider suicide a fucking miracle cure. For us. Because there are seven fucking billion of us here now, with more on the way, and not ONE of us has the patience for this kind of whining. And I'm not just talking about fly-bothered and hollow-eyed Starvation Boy in Burundi with his distended belly and xylophone ribs, or Double Amputee Roadside Bomb Girl outside Kandahar - I mean EVERYBODY, from the Prime Minister of fucking England to the gaunt, shrill Frankenhookers on The Real Housewives. From sea to shining sea we are sick to death of your self-pitying bullshit, you pungent little skid mark.


We would each of us rather our next meal consist only of the fragmentary peanuts and corn clinging to Kim Kardashian's dick after it's been ass-punishing that ex-husband of hers than to put up with another second of your self-indulgent (Spoiler alert - Kim Kardashian has a dick, and we're not talking about a vestigial little Jamie Lee Curtis pig-tail nipple dick, here, but a properly thick and veiny porn cock. "Kim" Kardashian is hung like a fucking Pringles® can, fellas. That slurpy sound you hear is tens of thousands of spent spank loads trying to claw their way back into the wieners they came from. Guys: where grainy sex tapes are concerned, ALWAYS run a dick-check - it's pretty basic. Then maybe we'd have been spared this Kardashian reign of fucking terror. Or, all you freaks are into shemales. Either way: sad times.) 


Point is this: it's 2012. The year that, according to predictions of the Mayan calendar, you should just go fuck yourself. You're right to hate yourself. It just means you're joining the rest of us. If you think for a second that your transitory feelings of discomfort qualify as anything like actual pain, you can Sharpie® the words "entitled twinkle-tits little twat burger" on a grenade, pull the pin, and stuff it up your ass. Your new nickname is Wet Firecracker. Pity you'll only have it for like 8 seconds. Happy New Year, Idiot Asshole.