'You drink too much', W. says. 'Mind you, I'd drink if I had your life'. Why doesn't someone put me out of my misery? Why don't I book myself into a suicide clinic? Do I have any sense of the disgust my very existence of earth should engender? But then, how could I? It would be like a pig that developed a disgust at its own excrement. I'd live in contradiction. I'd breach the law of the excluded middle. I would exist knowing only that I should cease to exist, and how could that be endured?
Lars Iyer's Blog 