Really, I should be grateful; performing this mindless work spares me the burden of maintaining self respect.
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A few times a month I take the empty gun from the drawer and hold it to my temple. If someone asked why, I’d probably come up with something about “clearing the mind.” The truth is, I just like the way it feels.
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Last week for the first time I took a bullet from the cigar box, loaded it into the chamber and gave it a spin before holding the gun to my head. I can’t describe the surge of adrenaline as I visualized pulling the trigger.
He stopped seeing them after realizing their kindness came more from pity than affection or respect.
We all fell apart, while they just got younger and younger.
Dinner with an old friend and his younger wife. She is lovely and shy, and in compensation you are more outgoing than usual. As you launch into another story about your friend as you knew him in college, a look passes between them and he squeezes her hand. You realize that her reticence is actually boredom and that dinner is, for them, an obligation to be endured as quickly and painlessly as possible.
Except as a referendum on current trends, he barely existed.
A space has been created in your brain for advertising, magical thinking, and organized religion.
The present you’ve ignored becomes the past you cling to.
You find yourself, at age 38, in possession of an “artistic personality” without the accompanying talent, skill, discipline, or intelligence. In short, an asshole.
For the first time this morning all three of my crumpled kleenex reached the trash can on the other side of the bed. Maybe this will be the day things finally start to turn around.
The inbred entitlement of the once-attractive.
