Super Bowl vs. Suicide

Owing to my refusal to hurt myself, be it removing a splinter, getting a tattoo or just drinking some foul medicine, I am a poor candidate for suicide. There is simply no foolproof, painless way to exit this world, especially if you are set on doing it gracefully which I would be. (Also it's dumb, since everyone dies anyway so why not wait your turn and try out life for as long as you can.) So here I am and here I'll stay until God works his, her or its mysterious magic and takes me, either by disease or a speeding Freightliner. 

The thing is, since I'm stuck here, I wish I could understand the appeal of football since the whole world finds it so damn interesting. For example, right now my husband is in the next room watching the Super Bowl with his dinner on his lap. I'm in the kitchen, dining solo and writing this post. I am through pretending, not that I ever fooled anyone. For years I have attended those odd gatherings dubbed "Super Bowl parties," where beer, nachos and chicken wings abound and people scream between bites when something happens on the screen that I don't understand; usually it's a pile of men on top of each other on the ground. 

It must be nice to care about such things and be at one with your Fellow Man. Alas, that is not the hand I was dealt. FYI, I also think Valentine's Day is moronic. 

People judge me harshly for my rejection of such things, yet they show compassion for the 32-year-old woman in Duxbury, Massachusetts who strangled her three young children with an exercise band two weeks ago. (The baby lived for three days before succumbing to his injuries). She then jumped out a second-story window, ostensibly to kill herself but all that happened is she broke her spine and she's now paralyzed from the waist down, and a murderer to boot. There's a GoFundMe page on Facebook for her legal fees. Many, many people sympathize with her, saying things like, "She's mentally ill, she couldn't help it," and "The medical community failed her." Heck, even her husband has forgiven her.

Nobody sympathizes with me for not liking football. In fact, I daresay I am looked on with greater disdain than that woman, and I doubt that my husband forgives me for it. Anyway, it's hard to believe she thought she could die by jumping from the second floor. I suppose she does deserve sympathy after all.