Brazil Wax
Suicide.
Sometimes I wonder what the best way to go is. Plath stuck her head in an oven, baking her brains at 425 for 15 minutes. Hemmingway grew a new eye socket.
I always thought I could if I had to. You know, you're there in a rickety old chair, staring at someone with an old car battery attached to jumper cables. I'd like to say I'd bite down on that cyanide tablet. But, then again, I think I would talk first and let them kill me. At least then I could have some closure.
Russ and I were best friends in high school. He didn't like to capitalize his name, and in a way that was kind of him. He didn't like attention on the surface, but he secretly enjoyed every bit he received. He would always say, "I'm just insignificant compared to the universe..." And then he would put his head in his hands and sigh deeply. That, of course, made the girls think he was profound, that he was so sensitive. As a result, he got more tail than he could keep track of.
In college, he changed, as did I, as we all do. Girls didn't like the sad boys any more. It took him no more than a day to figure that one out. So, he became the bookie. He became the schmoozer. He became one of the guys. I didn't. We graduated.
Russ and I parted ways a few years back. He moved off to Brazil and got himself a shaved little vixen with a huge ass and black hair. I never thought he would settle down. He was always too mobile, moving on from one project to the next. I wondered why he finally decided to stick with her. I always got the feeling he was on his way out. Last I heard, they were back in New York. He hadn't dropped a line. I assumed he was busy. I see him every now and again, haunting the old haunts.
I do charity work every month at a local Salvation Army. My sister talked me into it no too long ago and I found that I loved doing it. I was rifling through this old suitcase, checking for left behinds. Tucked into the seam was a beautifully written note to Selma. That is his wife's name.
"Dear Selma. I'm going to kill myself."
That was it. Simple, noncommittal, Russ.
Russ still goes in to Charlie's Coffee and Bakery every Wednesday. He wears the same plaid sweater he has for years. But, there's a new aura about him. One of these days he will settle down.
Sometimes I wonder what the best way to go is. Plath stuck her head in an oven, baking her brains at 425 for 15 minutes. Hemmingway grew a new eye socket.
I always thought I could if I had to. You know, you're there in a rickety old chair, staring at someone with an old car battery attached to jumper cables. I'd like to say I'd bite down on that cyanide tablet. But, then again, I think I would talk first and let them kill me. At least then I could have some closure.
Russ and I were best friends in high school. He didn't like to capitalize his name, and in a way that was kind of him. He didn't like attention on the surface, but he secretly enjoyed every bit he received. He would always say, "I'm just insignificant compared to the universe..." And then he would put his head in his hands and sigh deeply. That, of course, made the girls think he was profound, that he was so sensitive. As a result, he got more tail than he could keep track of.
In college, he changed, as did I, as we all do. Girls didn't like the sad boys any more. It took him no more than a day to figure that one out. So, he became the bookie. He became the schmoozer. He became one of the guys. I didn't. We graduated.
Russ and I parted ways a few years back. He moved off to Brazil and got himself a shaved little vixen with a huge ass and black hair. I never thought he would settle down. He was always too mobile, moving on from one project to the next. I wondered why he finally decided to stick with her. I always got the feeling he was on his way out. Last I heard, they were back in New York. He hadn't dropped a line. I assumed he was busy. I see him every now and again, haunting the old haunts.
I do charity work every month at a local Salvation Army. My sister talked me into it no too long ago and I found that I loved doing it. I was rifling through this old suitcase, checking for left behinds. Tucked into the seam was a beautifully written note to Selma. That is his wife's name.
"Dear Selma. I'm going to kill myself."
That was it. Simple, noncommittal, Russ.
Russ still goes in to Charlie's Coffee and Bakery every Wednesday. He wears the same plaid sweater he has for years. But, there's a new aura about him. One of these days he will settle down.
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