Don't do it. There, I said it. You shouldn't kill yourself. I know you have a lot of reasons why you should. Your wife left you for another man, or maybe even turned out to be a man. Or more likely, you don't have a wife, and probably never will. You're feeling very lonely. I'm sure you can feel this giant gaping glum-hole where you think your soul should be. And in your very situation, a lot of people would off themselves.
A few years ago I was in your very situation. I felt my life slowly being eroded away by unseen forces, my soul slowly picking the handcuffs that bound it to me. Sure, I'm one of the sexiest men alive and can have any woman I want, and sure, I'm the smartest human being alive, but I was missing something. All those matches of intellectual mud-wrestling didn't fill the widening gap inside of me, the gap which was displacing my soul, my spirit, and my love for life. All of the supermodels didn't remove the burning feeling in my heart, they only relocated it.
I was close to taking the plunge, but then I found the spiritual decongestant. It was as if my chi got the Drain-O it desperately needed. This cleansing knowledge is one that supersedes understanding, fact, or even truth. It was such an empowering, all encompassing doctrine that I feel spiritually reborn. To this end I've forsaken my previous life as materialistic playboy, and decided to fully preach the doctrine that saved me: Zyrealism.
It was on a rainy September evening. I was walking home after doing a charity benefit with George Clooney. Everything was a shade of grey. Even the barking of my neighbour's dog seemed to be a shade of grey. As mother earth started her metaphorical menstrual cycle, causing a ferocious downpour, I quickly ran inside the nearest shop. I smiled at the shopkeeper, unsure of what type of store I had just entered. He returned a knowing smile, so I ambled around the store, looking like an awed tourist. It wasn't long before my eyes settled on a yellowed and aged map of a mountain. Entranced by the map, I quickly bought it, along with an umbrella, and headed to my mansion in Beverly Hills.
I studied the map intensely. It had the hallmarks of an Egyptian map, but the feel of an Greek map, and I'm sure you can all understand the ramifications of this. Quickly I located the area the map charted, and I was on my way. My guide was a small albino boy and his monkey, and we had many rousing nights of charades. The boy took me to the foot of the mountain, and pointed to a path not far away. Speaking in his tongues he was so fond of he made a few clicking sounds then said, “Mount Zyrealus.” I laughed derisively at the boy, then proceeded to climb the mountain.
The journey was trying. On many occasions I was forced to employ my yoga training, wrapping my ankles around my neck and sustaining myself with my own urine. It could have been days or weeks, but finally I reached the top of the treacherous mountain. There was a beautiful house at the top, supported by powerful pillars, seemingly hand carved by the determination of the man that stood in front of the house. The familiar face of the shopkeeper smiled at me, waving me into his house. It was here that I met Zyreal for the first time. He expanded my mind to incomprehensible limits. With the rich scent of Folger's Coffee, we stayed up late into the night, my mind suckling upon the intellectual treats Zyreal offered to me.
So let me introduce myself, I'm Dr. S. Miles, leading Zyrealist and academic extraordinare. I've come to free you from the shackles of your own oppression. I've come to preach the word of Zyreal. This book has been written to show you what a miserable life you're leading right now, and what you can do about it. This book has been called the, “How-to book to not killing yourself,” by none other than Dr. S. Miles, leading Zyrealist and academic extraordinare. I'm sure you'll agree.