Find the infinitely preferable short version of this entry below in 
the (SHORT VERSION) section. If you don't have the time or inclination to read the long version, it is highly recommended by mental healthcare practitioners that you read only the short version. However, failing to post a comment about either of the FINAL NOTES versions, long or short, will result in one of the following ailments:
A.) impotence/frigidity
B.) irrevocable spontaneous illiteracy
C.) a sore ass from me kicking it
The good news is you can't choose between the three.
Final Notes - (LONG VERSION)
Dull teeth and uninspired bites – dry or slobbery lips puckered for some worthless and probably unrequited kiss - scrawny, frail wrists affixed to squelchy knuckled fists that squish on impact not smashing worthy targets into bits, not signaling rebellion, not even punching holes through fake smiles. I have just described this, and every other useless paragraph…in fact, almost every other string of bunched together sentences with very few exceptions… it has to end.
Been writing a while? Tired of relying on bells and whistles to get the job done? Well, the good news is that there is no job to do but for entertainment, and drawing people’s attention onto the pages you so painstakingly craft to be captivating distractions from your readers’ lives is a sham and you know it.
Maybe this knowledge is buried deep, but stop pretending to have important things to say when all of your writing amounts to nothing more than amusement under the guise of artistic or vicarious experience:
Every hour your readers read is an hour that they are duped into believing they have lived something profound when in actuality they have not lived at all. They have sat. Stared at ink and thin rectangles of macerated pressed wood or glaring boxes of radiation.
They should be living their only lives, but instead they read you, unable to turn away from your cleverly constructed cabal, your novel, your script, your article, your blog, your love letter, your email, your joke of the fucking day.
Why not do away with all your fancy talk, your literary devices and techniques, your memorable or zany characters and catchy phrases, your plot twists and surprise endings and never ending rants and tedious tangents and linguistic special effects?
Put an end to your (and our) suffering by FINALLY writing what
you mean and meaning what you write by writing that ONE final note; that ONE last message to the world that expresses your true self and lets the reader know who you really are, and what you really mean, and most important, what you meant and who you were, because try as you might, you can’t fake a fucking suicide note.
To be great it has to be real.
Non-fiction.
Acknowledged as McCoy.
Maybe read allowed by a friend or family member at your funeral or your wake as they stare at your corpse with some newfound opinion of fondness and respect, meanwhile hoping that you (now dead), the author of such a brilliant and inspiring final message, had respected the reader and had deemed him or her worthy of loving while you were alive.
Certainly, a writer worth any salt could manage a reasonable facsimile suicide note - something sufficiently tear-jerking to convince some fools of its saying-goodbye-to-tomorrowness.
Fine, but ask yourself this: what written passion, sorrow, anger, frustration, defeat, emotional insurgence or acquiescence could possibly compare to the sheer power released into the letter you would write moments before taking your own life?
Try faking all you want – you will never write anything as focused, as stirring, or as poignant as your final earnest message to the world.
Having said that…
Writers, listen up: it’s time to leap from the building of this shabby reality; dive off the bridge built between common sense and hypocrisy; slash away at the vein of vanity and carve up the futile arterial insanity that binds us to mediocrity and pretty lies about why our words are supposed to matter because except as distractions, they don’t.
Nothing does. Lol. 
Final Notes - (SHORT VERSION)
Hi anyone. I'm looking to compile, for my own zany, fun-luvin’ reasons, imaginary though convincing suicide notes from any writer worth a lick of salt. I would write them myself, but as you can tell, I haven't enough salt to flavour a garbanzo bean.
I need your help in this worthy and charitable endeavour. The notes don’t have to be long. They don’t have to be masterpieces, but some of them will be. Or really funny. It is not a contest, though the prizes include retaining a love of sex and your ability to recognise the alphabets, and not waking up with my shoe up your arse. Winners will be published online in three weeks in big bold letters. Good-luck and have as much fun as I know you're dying to...
Last night I thought about this woman who is doing this thing she can’t afford, but does it still. She bathes in wine - draws her bath and when it’s filled with warmth she pours a bottle of costly wine into the water, then soaks. She hasn’t tasted wine in years but for its sweet vapours that rise and dance in the steam. Soaking until the water prunes her crimson skin and she is light-headed, she rests her hands in the most tender spots and learns the spirit of the bottle…I would love to know her name. 
I don't know if it was accidental, or if some computer geek with a severe lisp who works the airport security decided to slap his two-cents down on anyone who would dare ridicule him. Either way I think it’s hilarious.
