Suicidal Bad Guys

Let's lay it on the table.  Fiorella sees no sense in police preventing people who have committed horrible crimes from killing themselves, or in medical personnel trying to save their lives so they can stand trial.  Why waste time and money on a trial?  Why set up an opportunity for bad people to receive short sentences or get off scott free?  Why drag friends and family through hell and back again?

Fio does not understand.

In Memoriam

Fio is baffled by the magnitude of the outcry at the death of Robin Williams.  He was a good actor and a great entertainer, but Fiorella does not feel a personal loss.  It's sad that he committed suicide, but every suicide is sad.  Every death is sad.  We'd all prefer our friends and families to live for at least as long as we do.

But Robin Williams was not a member of our families.  Maybe Mork was, or Mrs. Doubtfire, but not the man behind the mask.  He chose to leave the stage, and we'll never quite know why.

Current Events

Call Fiorella hard-hearted, even cold-blooded, but why do police try to talk a murderer out of suicide?  Why waste time and, ultimately, LOTS of money on a person who has done the unthinkable? Let him be his own executioner.  It's a fitting end.

Continued from Yesterday

Here is an example of Fiorella's type of poetry, a tight little sonnet on suicide she wrote years ago when she was very depressed.  The "Dorothy" to whom it is addressed is Dorothy Parker, who wrote "Razors pain you;/Rivers are damp;/Acids stain you;/And drugs cause cramp./Guns aren't lawful;/Nooses give;/Gas smells awful;/You might as well live."  Ol' Dorothy wrote pretty tight herself--and used punctuation out the wazoo.

I called this cheery little ditty "Suicide."

                                 

            Ah, Dorothy, your choice was much too rash:

            There are other options I could recommend

            Than poison, razors, nooses, guns, or gas

            To bring about a graceful, private end.

            The suffocation of the spirit's one--

            On shallow breaths, hope is inclined to smother;

            An assault on the heart can get it done,

            The strangulation of the soul's another.

            Then you still could walk about, though dead,

             A lumbering, slack-jawed zombie, hollow-eyed,

            You'd grin and bow and nod your pleasant head

            With no one guessing you're a suicide.

                     Don't think that, knowing, any would be grieved

                    My own experience is, they'd be relieved.