[Unposted, heartfelt text of concern from a reader who thought my Letter to the Pirates posted on 10/2/21 indicated a suicide letter.]

I am not suicidal, in response to your message of concern.

I do believe strongly that systems of rule and faith that forbid suicide are evil and that this is proven by the way people are locked into madhouses and prisons and hospitals for the crime of trying to escape the greater madhouse of the world by killing themselves.

I regard my life as fortunate and my lot as blessed.

Personally, I have no desire to kill myself, even though I greatly dislike myself and my form. Life has taught me that the end is already racing to gather my weak-ass into eternity. Why should I hurry my exit when there are friends and enemies yet to make, friends to help and enemies to vex yet?

At age 11, when I survived a drowning attempt, and then discovered boxing in the same week, after a life of bullying and torment, I decided that I was the enemy of the world and that I would not be locked up, bound, imprisoned or hospitalized against my will if I could help it. I developed enough combat ability to maintain this resolve.

I am the only lifelong white pedestrian I know of who was not relived of his possessions by Bantu warriors in Baltimore—that is aside from my Uncle Bill. My resolve has been rock solid there, with me even going after gun-armed men who threatened me.

I did want to kill myself as a teen, but could not bring myself to leave such a mess for people who cared about me.

I did attempt to step in front of a bus once when 31 years old and in a complete state of attack from: employer, labor union, coworkers, criminals, cops and wife. A slut grabbed me by the arm and I ended up banging her at Nasty Nick's house and shacking up with her until her boyfriend got released from prison. Since then, I have never actively wanted to die.

Since that time, twice, I have decided against medical treatment for pnemonia, and laid in bed alone waiting to painlessly die from “the old man's friend,” and go figure, I lived, proving the prick that made me has a sense of humor. I would not call that suicide, but dignity. Our medical system is dedicated to killing us as slowly and expensively as possible, and I deny participation in that.

I do not suffer from depression. Rather, I suffer from animosity for the rules of men and have decided that I will not again submit to medicine—this in itself will most likely eventually kill me. I am years overdue for basic bloodwork, etc.

I have two requirements to continue living, either one of which will do in the absence of the other:

-The ability to use a knife against younger, stronger men, which is a safeguard for my fractional autonomy, that tiny slice of freedom I demand from the slave-making world,

-The ability to write.

If I cannot write or fight my life has no purpose to me. In such a case I would not actively kill myself but just let my lungs fill up.

People might think I do not possess this resolve.

But just last year, while pounding out a decision on a plump little girl [who admittedly put up negligible opposition], I developed extreme pain in the left chest and numbness in the left arm and hand. After talking it over with her, I decided to see my doctor for dinner in a few days and then finished the attack, much to her horror, attempting to die on her. Doctor Dread checked me on the eatery lot and determined that I had a torn chest muscle and carpel tunnel...

In 2014 when the family elected my son to convince me to get a health check-up as I had gained weight and was uninsured, I ran a mile with a backpack on at night, and when my heart did not fail, I took that as an EKG.

I demand very little from the world:

-Don't touch me unless your are a babe or a sparring partner, or Bob reminding me to get the hell out of the way of Dallas's tractor,

-Don't lock me up,

-Don't hospitalize me,

-Don't drug me...

That's about it. I put up with being threatened, made fun of and stolen from routinely.

So, if you care, don't worry about me offing myself.

I do look in the mirror some mornings and think, 'You old broken-down piece-of-shit, you are still here to suffer the slings and arrows of this wretched world?'

I use that in my writing. Every day I kill myself and someone else—usually a cop as a form of conditioning to make sure I do not submit to arrest—in my mind. I write the first-person deaths of numerous villains, heroes and supporting actors that are in some part me.

So long as I can protect myself from abduction I will try to linger by way of natural means. This is why I carry a knife and refuse to fly.

So long as I can write I should be able to maintain my sanity. The above condition is largely in case I go nuts and people try and lock me up, so I don't have to suffer that indignity.

This all comes back to the reason why I did not step to Hazelnut Van Helsing in April of last year in Baltimore County, and carve his guts out with the knife in my hand, or shank Skidmark and Cumstain on Glenoak and Pinewood in Baltimore City in 2017—because I am a writer and I'm not done writing. If I were done writing I would have fought these men instead of playing safe and defusing their attack. Either encounter, in victory or defeat, my life is over, for if I win the cops are coming, to violate one of my other four conditions...

I see my ultimate enemy as The World, this world, Planet Faggotron, this asylum of the gay apes, Mudder Urff, with all of its conservative cucks worshipping Her septic civics utters, Whore Civilization with all of her leftoid pimps and johns—the yawning shitshow known as Modernity. This immense rancid skank of a society is my enemy—and so long as I can write, I count my remaining life as something of a fight.

So, bro, don't worry about me checking out until the cruel Creator that cast me into this pit patrolled by some 250 million guards and trustees and crooks, decides to either erase me or arrange for some other punishment and calls me to doom.

Thank you.