FROM THE ARCHIVES: THE ABYSS

 

The other day a friend offered to dispatch me with a crossbow, and while my immediate reaction was emphatically negative, I have today reversed my position. I would definitely prefer to be taken out with a crossbow, but with an important proviso: the timing must be right. I can’t emphasize this too strongly. I don’t want to be cut down in the prime of life, or at any time when the phrase “cut down” would spring to my eulogizers’ lips. I would like any volunteers to hold off until the light behind my eyes has dimmed to the point that my caregivers routinely jostle me at appointed times to make sure I’m not dead yet. Or maybe it’s when I’ve reached the stage where I have “caregivers”. If I am living in a place categorized as “assisted living”, it’s definitely time to start googling crossbow outlets. When my surroundings consist not of haphazard accumulations of doodads precious to me, but are designed strictly for ease of clean-up and avoidance of lawsuits, it’s time. Especially if the theme is mauve. I don’t want to live in a state of forgetfulness that I ever pulled all-nighters or drove cross-country or voted or played the guitar or read books or loved or fucked or drew pictures or laughed hysterically at nothing. Unless I’m laughing hysterically at nothing in my assisted living situation; I suppose you could let me go on for a while that way. But I’d still prefer to go out in a blaze of glory, the way I came in. What better way to do it than a crossbow?