So I've been practicing being dead. Mostly, I do it during my shifts at McDonalds, when the people in the drive-through have started to blend into one continuous smear of salmon-colored midwesterner. I scrape grease off the underside of the fry vat, and I turn off all my thoughts like I'm initiating the landing sequence for a goddamned 747, one brain-zone at a time. I do it, too, when my mother's commandeered the TV to watch that show with the ballroom dancers--you know, the one where the women are pretty much naked besides a couple sequins and those weird Lolita wigs with all the perfectly cylindrical curls. That One Chilean Fighter Pilot's mystic-tanned abs are my gleaming, undulating tunnel of light; I am in a huge, scrumptious oblivion as the clock hand whirls through their time slot, in my own, separate 0-4 time as their drum machine sends them foxtrotting into hell.
I'm pretty much over spiritual revelations, which I've had about once a week since I turned fourteen. I'm done with LSD, and movies with less than six explosions per hour, and opera and ashrams and all that shit. I need to rehearse for nothingness, for my soul's eventual implosion. I've gotten too good at being myself.
painting is by lawrence yang.
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