To condemn suicide is the ultimate moral fraud, a sanctimonious lie told by a society that happily accepts manipulation, suffering, and the cold elimination of others, yet flinches at the prospect of an individual judging their own existence to be unworthy. This is not a matter of circumstantial sadness (a failed romance, a lost job, etc.) but a rational, ethical verdict against the very structure of life, a terminal condition whose fundamental state is pain and whose inevitable trajectory leads to moral disqualification. When the relentless grind of being erodes your capacity to live as a moral agent, clinging to life becomes the true act of cowardice, a base submission to biological instinct. The great philosophers, from Kant with his convenient asymmetries to Heidegger with his fear of truly owning one's death, failed to grasp this. To choose your end is the ultimate act of moral agency, an overcoming of nature that is far more profound than mindlessly continuing to live at any cost. My non-being is my own negative patrimony, an inalienable right I need not earn and for which I need no one's permission. The real philosophical question is not why one would choose to die, but rather, given the structural horror of it all, how anyone manages to keep on living.