I haven’t said anything in some time. I’ve had nothing to say. I still have nothing important to say, but I will say this:
A long time ago, over dinner, my father taught me the best way to kill myself with a gun. He said I should not aim for my temple. Instead, I should fill my mouth with water, put my gun in my mouth, and fire through the top of my head. I can’t remember what function the water served—to create added pressure, perhaps, at the moment of detonation? To boil out my brains? I can’t remember, but the water was essential. I committed this to memory, though whenever I’ve thought how I might take my life, I’ve pictured a fall from a great height, never a gun. I wouldn’t use a gun. I wouldn’t know how to get one.
Here’s a funny thing: I ran out of things to say about the time the pandemic came. Two days ago, I had my first COVID shot. Make of that what you like.
I dreamt, a couple of nights ago, of a future where water was scarce. I had, on my balcony, a device to catch rainwater and cleanse it of contaminants. In my dream, I went out and drank from the spigot, and then washed my face from it. A crow watched me do this—then, when I’d gone, used the drops I had spilt to do the same for itself. It was funny, the way it washed its face. It dipped its head in the puddle and rubbed it on its shoulder, over and over till its feathers stood up.
In this future, my sink was full of artificial plants. My bathtub had books in it, and boxes of junk. When I looked in the fridge, that had books too. The freezer wasn’t running, but I’d filled it with protein bars. I reached out to take one, and then I woke up.
I used to post pictures here, didn’t I? I have a good one for this—a special speech bubble for when you want to say something ridiculous.