Oh, How I Dream of Death
I always wanted to die in a dramatic way, the kind of way when people thought of me they’d shake their heads and say, “Fuck. She was such a sweet girl. How could she do that to herself?” Maybe I’d step out into a busy street and get crushed and torn to pieces by a speeding garbage truck. Maybe I’d go Virginia Woolf and drown myself, possibly in the apartment swimming pool wearing a purse full of dumbbells. Maybe I’d somehow come upon a hidden apothecary, purchase a bottle of arsenic, make arsenic brownies, and consume them until my last breath. Something so ridiculous that everyone would be too damned curious about my capabilities of killing myself in such a creative way that they’d forget about the why.
But being that I am me and that I’ve tried to meet my peril at least twice before, I’m consigned to accept that Death doesn’t want me while I’m young and supple and still worth a fuck. My fate is to die as an old, wrinkly-skinned, droopy-faced woman comfortable in my bed.