In less than a month, I shall be turning the age of 42. I consider it a rather significant year, not only because I’d never thought that I’d live to see this age (I’m almost twelve years late from the age I thought I’d actually expire, in case you were morbidly curious), because, according to one of my favorite sci-fi books, 42 is the answer to life, the universe, and everything. And so, for the next 365 days following December 4th, as we all await the arrival of the Vogons to demolish our planet to make way for the intergalactic highway, I shall be the living embodiment of the answer to all things.
Anyway, as we come close to the day where I mark off another year of being stood up by Death, I’ve found myself pondering more and more that I really don’t want any gifts given for either my day of birth, or in observance of this mass congestion of consumerist joygasms that you humans refer to as “Christ-Mass” (probably in a misguided attempt at “irony” or whatever). Reasons, mostly stemming from the events of the past couple of years. Instead, since everyone seems to have some kind of pet cause to uphold, I’m going to go ahead and come out with the one I’ve chosen to go with, and ask that you consider giving a donation in lieu of the regular sacrifice of cake and shiny baubles to the \,,/METAL DEMIGOD\,,/.
Consider giving, sponsoring or merely giving free publicity to a suicide prevention service, be it a Christian outreach or not. My own struggles with depression and suicidal tendencies are flayed out for all to see, but not everyone have the courage to get help and talk about this. Which one to give to is up to you; personally, I have chosen To Write Love On Her Arms for which to sponsor.
There, that’s all the soapbox haranguing that I’m going to do for now. Back to your regularly scheduled inane bantering of your beloved Uncle NecRo.