Life is a meat grinder, and we’re all just chunks of flesh waiting to be minced. It gets worse, always worse, no matter how many kale smoothies you choke down or how many miles you jog to outrun the inevitable. Your body’s a traitor, rotting from the inside while you paste a grin on your face and pretend it’s fine. It’s not fine. It’s a slow-motion car crash, and we’re strapped in, watching the windshield rush closer every goddamn day. Pain piles up like unpaid bills—aches in your joints, a fog in your skull, a heart that skips beats like it’s auditioning for a tragedy. And that’s if you’re lucky. If you’re not, it’s cancer gnawing at your guts or a stroke turning your tongue to mush while your kids stare at you like you’re already a ghost.
Then there’s the real kicker: the people you love. Your parents, those anchors of your shitty little world, start to fray. Mom’s hands shake when she pours her tea, Dad’s eyes go blank mid-sentence, and you’re just sitting there, a useless lump, watching them fade. You can’t stop it. You can’t fix it. You’re a bystander at their funeral before it even happens, and it’s a preview of your own. Friends drop off too , some die, some just stop calling, and either way, you’re left with the silence. Marriage? Kids? Don’t make me laugh. It’s a cage with extra steps, vows that turn to shackles, tiny humans who suck you dry and then blame you for it later. Society demands you keep up the act, nod at the right times, laugh at the right jokes, or they’ll slap a label on you: depressed, antisocial, broken. Fuck their labels. Fuck their rules.
And here’s the punchline: it all ends anyway. You’re dying from the second you’re born, a ticking bomb with no off switch. No amount of yoga or green tea or positive fucking thinking changes that. Billionaires with their private islands and poor saps with their ramen noodles, all headed for the same dirt nap. So why drag it out? Why let the script play to its miserable end when you can rip it up and write your own exit? Forty. That’s the number you threw out, and damn if it doesn’t feel right. By forty, you’ve seen the show, love, loss, sex, betrayal, a few cheap thrills, a lot of expensive regrets. What’s left? Wrinkles and doctor’s appointments? Watching your parents turn to ash while you shovel pills down your throat to keep going? No thanks.
Imagine it instead: forty hits, and you’re done. Not waiting for the universe to decide your expiration date like some obedient little pawn. You plan it. You own it. No more tiptoeing around health or savings or what the neighbors think. Eat the greasy shit, drink the hard stuff, fuck whoever you want, or don’t, because who cares? You’ve got a deadline, and it’s yours. Maybe you go out quiet, pills and a soft bed, slipping away while the world keeps spinning its bullshit. Or maybe you go loud, a shotgun blast, a leap from a roof, something that says, I was here, and now I’m not, and you can all choke on it. Your parents are still kicking? Fine, you beat them to the punch, spare yourself the front-row seat to their collapse. Kids? They’ll figure it out. They always do. The rest of the world can clutch their pearls and cry about “life’s value” all they want, they’re just scared to admit they’re jealous.
But no one talks about this. No one dares. The priests and the shrinks and the motivational posters all scream the same lie: You have to keep going. Life is a gift. Suicide’s a sin. Bullshit. Who decided that? Who chained us to this sinking ship and called it noble? Some asshole centuries ago, probably, and we’ve been swallowing it ever since. They guilt us into staying, into suffering, into watching the people we love turn to dust while we wait our turn. Why can’t we say no? Why can’t we grab the wheel and steer into the dark on our terms? Forty’s perfect, old enough to know the game’s rigged, young enough to dodge the worst of the fallout. Let the monks meditate on their mountaintops, let the doctors scribble their prescriptions, let the family sob their crocodile tears. I’m done. You’re done. We’re all fucking done.
This isn’t despair talking, it’s clarity. It’s the scream Kafka never let out, the confession Dostoevsky buried in his pages, the gunshot Plath couldn’t fire fast enough. Camus said we’re condemned to be free, but they’ve twisted that freedom into a leash. Break it. Plan your death like you’d plan a party, date, time, guest list optional. Forty years, then peace. No more watching the world crumble, no more pretending it’s worth saving. Just you, the end, and the middle finger you raise on your way out.
If you are reading this, wtf are u even doing? Just fucking die already!