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(Daily Mail)   Scary: Depressed 13-year-old boy cuts himself. Scarier: Posts on Instagram that he is going to kill himself on his birthday. Better: His mom finds out and asks for letters of support on facebook. BEST: He has received thousands and is doing better   ( dailymail.co.uk) divider line
    More: Scary, Instagram  
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9729 clicks; posted to Main » on 11 Mar 2013 at 12:36 PM (5 years ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook   more»

Voting Results (Funniest)
View Voting Results: Smartest and Funniest

2013-03-11 01:19:42 PM  
5 votes:
i.chzbgr.comView Full Size
2013-03-11 01:02:27 PM  
4 votes:
Hoping at least one of those letters just said: "Can I have your stuff?"
2013-03-11 01:07:21 PM  
3 votes:

rkiller1: [www.marketoracle.co.uk image 170x241]

What do you want you moon-faced assassin of joy?
2013-03-11 01:05:46 PM  
3 votes:
Great news for the kid.  Bad news for business.

/owns a Big & Tall Casket Emporium
//the short, fat kids' coffins cost the most because they're usually sports themed
2013-03-11 12:53:35 PM  
3 votes:
I heard a place called  4chanis a wonderful online community for support and comfort. He could post his pictures there. Supposedly, the posters there are full of advice.
2013-03-11 11:59:09 AM  
3 votes:

xanadian: FTFA: Noah Brocklebank, a seventh-grader from Columbia, Md., has been bullied by his classmates for years. He's been called 'fat,' 'ugly,' 'annoying,' and loser,' amongst other terrible names.

1. Kids are assholes, *especially* at that age, and I'm glad the kid is getting help.
2. If he's so bothered by not just the name-calling, and it's his physique that's drawing all this negative attention, there's a solution: GET IN SHAPE, GO OUTSIDE, BE ACTIVE. Mommy Dearest, this is YOUR cue as a parent to support him in this.
3. He's no fatter than 90% of the other kids I see these days, but he's gotta lose that Bieber do. Yipes!

So we know he is fat and ugly. We'll just have to take the other kids word for it that he was annoying and a loser.

/aisle seat please. I am also fat and like to let my fat hang out into the aisle.
2013-03-11 04:19:49 PM  
2 votes:
1.bp.blogspot.comView Full Size
2013-03-11 02:10:35 PM  
2 votes:

DerAppie: 13 was an awesome age.

When I was about 13, all of my friends were going on dates with girls. As for me, I spent most nights playing Nintendo and jacking off on pages I'd ripped out of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue at the local Ralph's. I really liked girls, but the idea of convincing one to go out on a date with me, much less kiss me, seemed daunting if not impossible.

I was fat. Hell yeah I was fat. My pale skin and ridiculous fat rolls earned me the nickname "Michelin." It wasn't the happiest time for me.

You see, I let my home life, which was dreadful at the time, overrun my ability to develop social skills. Some people use social time as an escape from a crappy home life. I supplanted with donuts and books. And while books are great and I'm not saying anyone should stay away from books, all the sitting on my ass didn't help. So I became a fat, bookish, powdered sugar covered recluse which, to be honest, would have suited me fine if I wasn't forced outside to go to school five days a week. I faked illness whenever I could. Somehow, despite choosing to be a doughy social retard, it still hurt when other people noticed.

I just wanted to be invisible.

It was sort of a dismal point in my life. I didn't really want to jump through hoops to find myself in anyone's favor, but it would have been nice to jump out of my skin for a day here, a week there, and just live the life everyone else seemed to be living. And so the friends I did havewere always the types who understood that. People with whom you could sit in a room saying and doing nothing and still consider it a good time at the end of the day. Unfortunately, their time for me was in rapid decline.

I couldn't count on my mom's friends to show pity on a sexually uneducated boy - my mom's friends were all middle eastern men. I began to question the point of my existence if I was going to spend it alone and in vain, only to die alone and forgotten.

Flash forward a few months to July 18th, 1998. It's 5am and I've been awake all night, sitting on my faux leather recliner, staring at the television. Teletubbies is about to come on and freak me the hell out.

Steve, I say to myself, you are in a funk. And I agreed with myself because, well, I was tired of having that argument where I tell myself everything's okay and that rubbing one out into an empty carton of rocky road ice cream wasn't that terrible a life to lead.

So every morning at 5am for the rest of that summer, I went outside for a run. I ran all the way my chubby legs would take me. At first, it wasn't terribly far, but by mid-August, I could make it two blocks without breaking a sweat (which may have been cheating because the sun didn't come out until 7am those days and while I wasn't shivering as I ran, heat wasn't a factor in my fatigue). In fact, I started sweating a lot less doing a lot of things.

However, expending all that energy was making me even hungrier , and I was still eating like crap. I looked and felt better than ever, but I was still fat as f*ck. So one day, probably August 30th or so, I stop by Karen's house. She lives about four houses down the street from me.

Karen is the closest thing our neighborhood had to a fitness celebrity. Think John Basedow with incredible tits. Anyway, I thought I'd stop by to see if she could give me a few pointers on eating right and maybe a good solid budget analysis on what it would cost to eat like a skinny person.

So I knock on her door. I figure she'll be up because I've noticed that most days she, like me, is up going through her morning exercise routine. I can kind of make out what sounds like music playing, so I decide to wait. My patience was rewarded as just ten short minutes later, an exhausted but glowing Karen shows up. I could tell she'd been sweating profusely and I'd be lying if it didn't excite me a little. Of course, being only thirteen, thinking about the cartoon lizard striptease I saw when I was seven gave my chubby little nub a tickle.

"Hello, Steven," she said, smiling, "how can I help you?"

"Karen, I mean, umm, Ms. Taylor, umm," I sputtered.

"Yes?" she said, smiling perhaps larger still.

"Hi," I said, feeling more than a little retarded, "I was just wondering, well, you're really in shape. And I'm trying to get in shape, and I'm running every morning now and-"

"I've seen you out there lately," she grinned, "Why don't you come inside and you can ask me your question over a nice glass of carrot juice, darlin'."

"Um, okay," I said. I wasn't prepared for this. And if I wasn't already sweating like crazy, I certainly would be now.

"You can take a seat in the parlor," she said, pointing a finger into a doorway on the left, "I'll be right in with some refreshments."

I seated myself at a luxurious recliner in the corner of the parlor. A beautiful, chocolate brown honest to goodness leather recliner. I was in heaven. Or at least I thought I was until Karen sauntered into the parlor.

Then I knew I was in Heaven.

I had never seen a naked woman before. Her breasts swayed playfully as she approached the recliner in which I was seated. She handed me a mug and sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of me.

"Drink up," she insisted, "it tastes great. Nothing quite like something that's both good and good for you," she said.

I obliged without a second thought. Truth be told, it tasted terrible, but God himself was not going to yank the smile off my face.

"You have a lovely house," I said, choking the juice down.

"You like what you see?" she asked, smiling once again.

Part of me wondered if she could see my erection threatening to bust through my pants.

"Y-yes," I said, now choking on the question, "very much."

"I decorated it myself," she went on, "I really think the mint green trim sets off the leather. Makes it pop, you know?" I took another gulp of carrot juice and nodded, but she seemed not to notice.

And then she leaned in closer.

"Do you like my trim, Steve?" she whispered, her breasts now heaving over my mug, "You've done nothing but stare at it since I walked in here."

I tried to speak but my throat seemed to inexplicably swell shut with fear.

"Do you like it?" she repeated.

I nodded forcefully, the nerves in my hands tipping my mug over and onto her chest.

"Ohmygodimsorry, I-I-" I stammered.

"Oh, dear," she said, getting to her feet. The juice was dripping down her body and onto the carpet. She seemed upset at first, but then a flash of brilliance, or perhaps evil, crept across her face. She smiled and said, "You'll just have to clean this up, won't you?"

"Yes, I, um, ye-" I spat out, tripping over my tongue, "wiwhat?"

"Steve, you're not going anywhere until you finish your juice."

"What?" I asked, confused.

She ran a silky hand over my face. It trailed up to the top of my head, and then she pushed me to the floor.

"Finish it."

I did the first thing that came to mind and began sucking the juice out of the carpet fibers. What tasted terrible in a mug seemed like liquid death coming out of the carpet, but I had no choice but to continue as Karen placed her foot upon my head and pressed down hard. I bit my tongue as my face mashed into the carpet. I could feel my tongue bleeding into my mouth, which I tried to keep shut lest Karen make me suck that out of the carpet too.

I felt the pressure of her foot ease, and soon she was helping me up onto my knees. She returned to her seat at the edge of the coffee table.

"Good," she said, biting her lower lip, "but I have this little problem I need your help with. I'm spilling my juice, too."


Again I felt the silk in her touch as it ran up my forehead. She grabbed a handful of my hair, this time pulling my face onto her carpet.

"I'm sorry," I said, breathing heavily into her vajarpet, "I'm not exactly sure what I'm doing down here, and this is really my firs-"

"Shut up and eat, Steve," she commanded.

"Well, okay," I shrugged.

And getting to my feet, I left Karen's house, went home and microwaved myself some pizza.

F*ck yeah, pizza.
2013-03-11 01:46:34 PM  
2 votes:
upload.wikimedia.orgView Full Size

Why would you want people to send paper to someone who likes to cut himself?
2013-03-11 01:05:05 PM  
2 votes:

stonicus: Hoping at least one of those letters just said: "Can I have your stuff?"

OMG i'm a sick puppy for laughing at this.
2013-03-11 01:04:22 PM  
2 votes:
marketoracle.co.ukView Full Size
2013-03-11 12:07:57 PM  
2 votes:
If I wasn't absolutely positive that I wanted to kill myself, having thousands of people knowing about it surely would push me over the edge.
2013-03-11 11:23:49 PM  
1 vote:
First, if you're going to kill yourself, who gives a crap if you go into debt?

'go into debt'? You mean 'are in debt'. and no, I don't care about it. Based on the number of phone calls I get each day, there are plenty of people that do, however, and that is exactly what I need... constant reminders of my complete failure.

Second, you don't know me, so I'm going to pretend I didn't read that.

I assume you are talking about the snarky 'just because you are surviving doesn't mean I can do it' comment. I have to accede that point. That was petty.

You are not the first person in the world that's had to go through this.  You are not special because of depression or suicide.  The flipside to that is the most important -- you are not alone.

And we agree again. I am not special nor will I ever be. SO, since I will not be contributing anything to society, why keep on draining it? Why keep on taking up space that would be better suited for someone who will make that contribution? As for not being alone? I guess that depends on how you look at it.

Nevertheless, you need professional help and not Internet snark.  Get some, and if it doesn't work try a different doctor or counselor.

Professional help? You mean those self-absorbed paper wavers who have no problem pushing handfuls of drugs into my system but can't take five f*****g minutes out of their month to even attempt some kind of thearpy? Or are you referring to the 'doctor' at county who spent three minutes with me one time, and spent those three minutes telling me I needed to get a job so I could go to his private practice and pay him for what he was supposed to be doing at that moment in time? That 'professional help'? Or maybe you are referring to the 'professionals' who denied my workers comp claim over this now permanent back injury because it was a very gradual thing and the law says I only have year, then I am SOL. Those professionals? And if it doesn't work try someone else? Who? And pay them what? I am broke. And, despite the definition having changed over the past 20 years, I am using that word in the traditional sense. Broke. As in no money. As in borrowing the neighbors internet to post this. As in zero dollars. As in eating a $2 bag of cheap store brand Cheetos for dinner. As in looking at a vehicle I cannot afford to drive and will soon be losing it too. B-R-O-K-E. No one in the medical profession is going to even spare me a look with my empty ass wallet.

Help is out there, but their hands are full with other people just like you.  So get in there, make the freaking phone call, and get your crap sorted out.

Help is a 'for profit' industry. I have no profit to give them. Therefore, no help. Yes, their hands are full with others, so just what expectation should I have? Phone call? I have been dragged out of my own shack already for making a phone call. No Thanks.

As I have said, I am a wuss. I can't do it. But, I don't want to live with this failure of a life anymore. I am not some angst ridden teen. I am at the half century mark. There is no greener pasture, no fork in the road, just a cliff. Maybe... just maybe... one day that desire to take control will be able to override that wuss inside and I can make room for someone with potential. Or, once I am really homeless, the elements can do it.

/HA... more wishful thinking... I will just live to be 103 while homeless and wandering the streets like a zombie... like I said, 'God' is not thru playing with me yet.
// BTW, I have tried three times to end it.. not in a 'drama queen' way, but for real... told no one... and failed. Hows that for being a pathetic wuss??
2013-03-11 03:49:42 PM  
1 vote:

Wobble: You children that choose to downplay the seriousness of this problem need to get out of your mom's basement, find a girl (good luck), get married and have a kid.

And wind up miserable like you and your family? No thanks.
2013-03-11 03:36:33 PM  
1 vote:
imagemacros.files.wordpress.comView Full Size

/as hot as it is obligatory
2013-03-11 03:35:45 PM  
1 vote:
i.imgur.comView Full Size


13 years old?

2013-03-11 03:14:05 PM  
1 vote:
What a farking joke from a coddled attention whore and his attention whore family.

He should have taken his cry to help to 4chan instead, then the gene pool might have gotten the dose of chlorine it needed.
2013-03-11 01:55:55 PM  
1 vote:
25.media.tumblr.comView Full Size
2013-03-11 01:34:38 PM  
1 vote:

ghare: Random Anonymous Blackmail: Maybe mom should have been a little more attentive to what is going on in her kids life.

You can always tell which Farkers don't have any kids of their own.

Then whose kids do they have?
2013-03-11 01:31:59 PM  
1 vote:
A hair style like that on an overweight kid is like

throughthevalleycomics.comView Full Size
2013-03-11 01:26:51 PM  
1 vote:
I heard some of the letters gave him instructions on how to make pipe bombs
2013-03-11 01:25:01 PM  
1 vote:

xanadian: shifty lookin bleeder: He's been called 'fat,' 'ugly,' 'annoying,' 'loser,' and 'TotalFark target demographic', amongst other terrible names.

Watch yourself, sonny, or someone'll sponsor your ugly, fat, losering ass.

media.tumblr.comView Full Size
2013-03-11 01:15:58 PM  
1 vote:
Who thinks combing your hair forward like that looks good?

/aisle seat please. I am also fat and like to let my fat hang out into the aisle.

Can we stop asking for aisle or window seat on a filght to hell.  Does that even make sense? On a flight to hell you actually think you would have a choice of aisle or window? No, it will be nothing but middle seats and you wil be sitting between types of people you hate
2013-03-11 01:05:48 PM  
1 vote:
i.imgur.comView Full Size
2013-03-11 12:54:04 PM  
1 vote:
He's been called 'fat,' 'ugly,' 'annoying,' 'loser,' and 'TotalFark target demographic', amongst other terrible names.
2013-03-11 12:48:43 PM  
1 vote:
Emo kid gets attention. Film at 11.
2013-03-11 12:16:44 PM  
1 vote:
I know this is an assumption the size of the Milky Way, but that single picture of the mother screams "I AM THE MOST IMPORTANT CREATURE IN THE WORLD." I bet the kid is suffering due to the mother's ignorance of parenting.

/giant, massive assumptions and generalizations.
//Wha father whar?
2013-03-11 12:11:39 PM  
1 vote:
GREATEST:  Profit?
2013-03-11 11:52:46 AM  
1 vote:
FTFA: Noah Brocklebank, a seventh-grader from Columbia, Md., has been bullied by his classmates for years. He's been called 'fat,' 'ugly,' 'annoying,' and loser,' amongst other terrible names.

1. Kids are assholes, *especially* at that age, and I'm glad the kid is getting help.
2. If he's so bothered by not just the name-calling, and it's his physique that's drawing all this negative attention, there's a solution: GET IN SHAPE, GO OUTSIDE, BE ACTIVE. Mommy Dearest, this is YOUR cue as a parent to support him in this.
3. He's no fatter than 90% of the other kids I see these days, but he's gotta lose that Bieber do. Yipes!
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