Thinking about killing myself is, basically, my national sport. You felt feeble at the end. You weren’t having fun. You’d been chafing under the weight of your foul persona since the 70’s and, when your body started to give out, it became too much. However, you had obligations; not least of which to a sad little 18 year old who drank himself to sleep for the first time the night you died.
I wonder if anyone can picture the space I’m writing in? It’s like trying to picture someone based on the sound of his or her voice. I’ll cheat and tell you. My laptop sits on an old walnut desk in the corner of a wood paneled room decorated with 70’s era New York Giants memorabilia.
I want to make him laugh, so I start loudly ranting about how stupid Yu-Gi-Oh is. He’s laughing so I keep ranting even after I notice a skinny kid at the end of the aisle with his face buried in a Yu-Gi-Oh manga, shooting daggers at me with his eyes and sniffling.