He needed a way out
He wanted to die. He was aspiring to rest six feet under ground. He was desiring to commit murder against his own self. He was wishing to put a stop to his corporeal activities. He was looking for a way to interrupt his beating heart. He was adamant about stopping all form of energy from circulating throughout his body. He was secretly longing the absolute finitude of his insignificant existence in this gangrened, putrescent and infect macrocosm of which he wasn’t even worthy.
He wanted to commit suicide.
He needed a way out.
His life was nothing more than a collection of boring years. He was not only regretting the things he had done, he was also, and mostly, regretting the things he had not done. Like never playing baccarat against an angry Polynesian.
All there was left for him to do here was to find a method, a way of dying good and proper.
But which way?
He immediately discarded firearms. Even though they usually do instant work, he had the misfortune of inhabiting a country where gun licenses are required. Hello sir, do you have your license, your plates registration, your insurance, your green card, your social security number, your business card and your video club card? Did your bullet travel more than 60 miles an hour? Did you buckle up before shooting? Did you commit suicide under influence?
No, he was not going to apply for a license to suicide.
Knives and other blades were also out of the question simply because there was a huge risk of drawing a lot of blood on the carpet. It was quite an inspiring carpet, you see. He could have self-inserted the said blade outside of his home but he did not want to spread red rumours.
He then eliminated asphyxiation by pillow because he did not have any ever since he found out that sleeping on a dark grey rock that looked like an Italian sausage, but originating from the Himalayas, was the new zen thing to do.
He rejected quite a few methods of various efficiency ratings based on surviving and non-surviving people testimonies. The plastic bag amongst others was a no no because he was very well versed in the fine tradition of recycling. Out also was electrocution: his apartment only had a vertical shower (he never saw a horizontal shower in his life and that constituted another reason why he wanted to kill himself) and he did not want to have to keep throwing the toaster in the air until the slices of bread ejected and the water, with a superb ricochet from the crust, would infiltrate the circuits at the exact moment he would catch the machine. The chances were too slim. Might as well win the lottery, which he did four times already.
Throwing himself underneath a ten-wheeler was not an option because everybody knows it is not each and every wheel that splooshes you. And he did not want to starve to death because then this would be a huge waste.
Everything was wrong. The bridge was crossing a garbage-like river where he did not want to decompose; the Grim Reaper only came under the express recommendation from the celestial and underworld authorities; ropes were nowhere to be found ever since a sudden and inexplicable surge in rodeo popularity; cinder blocks were reserved to the elite and Bic pens were not as sharp as in the good old days.
He was still trying to find the perfect way to self-expire when a brilliant idea struck him.
And he died on the spot.
M.A.R.T. 
Malade ! 😉