Boolean: Today I saw a wrapper outside on the street, fluttering in the breeze while They were taking me home. It was a wrapper from one of those Neutrino bars I like so much. You know the one?
Mr. Boy: Yes.
Boolean: Yes, well as I watched it there, fluttering in the breeze the way most thin plastic packaging material has an ever-so-slight tendency to do, I wondered 'What if that was my wrapper?' And the more I thought about it, the more I disliked the thought. I thought, 'Oh, God, am I responsible for poisoning the environment with this plastic wrapper? Am I the one who will kill another fish or polar bear or as-of-yet undiscovered species of the mammalian or fish archetypes because I was too lazy to simply throw the wrapper into the oh-so-conveniently located trash can that just so happened to be a mere five feet—I measured—from me, even though I was getting ready for They to take me There and They always come at 6:30 A.M. sharp and I only had exactly two minutes to walk all the way down the street to the stop where They usually, but not always, pick me up as well as that other girl who waits at my stop for They to also pick her up with her offensive pink hair and her bag that says “I am a member of the Homosapien Society”.' And she talks, Mr. B. She talks so damn much.
Mr Boy: Indeed, I think I recall her. She does have a certain knack for rambling on and on about stuff.
Boolean: Well, as I was saying, the thought of doing any harm to the oh-so-precious environment with my neglection of throwing that Neutrino bar into the ever-so-five-feet-away trash can got me thinking about suicide. I haven't thought about suicide since that sweet little girl threw that razor blade at me and told me to 'eat shit and die'.
Mr Boy: I remember her as well. Nice kid. I think her father was a troll.
Boolean: Anyway, I was thinking about suicide when I felt a sudden epiphany slap my cranium. Aren't we all committing suicide? I mean, to put it simply, we all know that we have a certain chance of dying by going outside to, say, check the mailbox, or yell at the neighbor for letting their stupid dogs pee all over our plants again even though we've threatened to call Animal Control numerous times, but if, say, we slip on a patch of ice and crack our oh-so-thoughtful heads open, or that same neighbor's dogs maul us to death and then pee on our corpse, knowing full well that there was a chance of that happening, wouldn't it be suicide?
Mr Boy: It depends on how you define suicide.
Boolean: And how do you define suicide?
Mr. Boy: With a dictionary.
Boolean: No, I mean how do you, personally, as in your own opinion, define suicide?
Mr Boy: Noun, verb, word. An act by which a person willfully and intentionally takes their life, either because they've discovered that the divine entity known as Dog does not exist, or that, for example, their house has been burned down by the bum that's been living in their attic for three-to-four years, smoking joints and having a jolly good time while he listens to their children play with their Hot Wheels or whatever downstairs on that beautiful carpet that their richy rich relatives just bought them.
Boolean: So if I am interpreting your definition of the word correctly, it would be suicide.
Mr. Boy: No, no, no. I think you forget an integral part to my definition, which I shall hereafter call “Mr. B's Def. of Suicide”.
Boolean: And what part is that?
Mr. Boy: That suicide must be willing, and intentional, and other such words denoting a conscious decision, at least according to Mr. B's Def. of Suicide.
Boolean: So then you must want to commit suicide in order to commit suicide.
Mr. Boy: Exactly, my dear Boo.
Boolean: But then what do we call it when people who don't want to commit suicide die from that ever-so-slight chance of death that's embedded in every daily or nightly task we undertake in our drudgerous lives?
Mr Boy: We call those occurrences “happening shit”. Then we go to the funeral of said people, and either get drunk and ramble and hit on the man's mother, or tell all who will hear that said man must be looking down on us from an as-of-yet undiscovered layer of sky that presumably is dense enough to hold the weight of a full-grown man, or pretend that we actually gave a shit about the man while actually wanting to get into the dress/pants of whichever male or female relative we happen to be dating at the time.
Boolean: Ah.
Mr. Boy: And sometimes the same drunken person who previously was hitting on the man's mother may slur his words and proclaim that said dead man must be looking up at us, presumably from the Judeo-Christian concept of Hell, which most of the man's relatives and friends—except maybe the one's trying to get into the undergarments of the opposite or same sex—find offensive in the extreme, in which case they may ask the drunken man to leave, to which he will undoubtedly respond, “WHA'RE YOU TALKIN' BOU'?! I AIN' LEAVIN'!”, to which the angry relatives/friends will counter by promptly kicking him outside where he will grumble and curse and eventually stumble over to his car and go on a drunken-driver killing spree, murdering 16-and-a-half people while under the influence.
Boolean: Wow.
Mr. Boy: Indeed.
Boolean: I love you, Mr B.
Mr. Boy: I love you too, Boo.
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