I is getting mighty fucking tired of writing obituaries.
Alternately feeling like a nurse at a hospice, hovering bedside, looking at my watch… waiting to call time of death.
If said nurse believed in miraculous-11th-hour-Hail-Mary-passes et al. and refused to pull the plug “just in case”.
Just in case what? We’ve magically stumbled into the land of Floren…this one is only mostly dead?
As you wish*. Ya, I’ve heard that one before.
I have never been an advocate of kicking horses. Gentle nudges only, I prefer to use my words and lean into it. Let them go where they want, mostly. So why do I put the boots to the equines post mortem?
“Happy medium”. Traditionally meaning ‘somewhere in the middle between absolute peace and complete chaos’. OR meaning #2 ‘content necromancer’.
I am beginning to think that’s not possible. A contradiction in terms, like ‘friendly fire’, it’s a fucking barrage of bullets,there is no comradery here, only death and maiming.
Haley Joel Osmet was not a happy-go-lucky kid, lived in sheer terror in his blanket fort, clinging to plaster saints. I understand this. It’s hard to be happy when all of your friends are dead.
It got better for him at the end.
See? There’s hope.
My Sixth Sense is just as alive and well as his was.
I see dead people, I date them, I fuck them and then poof, I do what they needed me to do and they vanish.
I keep hoping I am on my way back from the dead.
But I get distracted. Shiny moaning zombies.
I am nostalgic for the days of corporeal muses.
Warm bodies in my bed, lively conversations, real voices, not just echoes.
The good kind of goosebumps.
Instead of rattling chains I get memories and random messages and ‘likes’ on IG or Facebook.
Cue the new one, I held in my hands a crystal ball, a proverbial one, but still.
I looked straight though it and at him and I said ‘if I sleep with you now, I will see you once or twice and you will vanish’.
That isn’t psychic powers. That is a basic understanding of men and how they work. Sleep with them too fast and they see you as carrion, not something to chase and hunt. And trust me, the ones that stick around if’n you fuck them right away? Fucking vultures, the lot of them. Beautiful riding thermals far away in the bright summer sky, ugly as fuck up close.
I, the writer, get stuck writing eulogies.
“…you think I’d be too stupid to know what a eugoogly was?”
I’m just too stupid to stop dating the dead.
Charon and I are on a first name basis. I step on the ferry, he nods and says “hey babe, s’up”, waives the fee.
I let them write their own epitaphs. Their final words burned into my brain like acid-etched tombstones.
Young Un one-point-oh (Astro-turf)“… I have to stay in your life, I have so many things I have to show you.”
Him aka the Hulk “I’ll be back tomorrow to keep you safe”, also “20 years ago you would have been my dream girl”.
Young Un two-point-ugh, aka Wolfling “I was too lazy to lock the door.”
Young Un three-point-Ouf, “Don’t melt on me babe, I need you solid.” So sayeth he right before he vanished into thin air. Oh the irony.
There was a writer too. Our conversations now bound in human flesh like the Necronomicon, and I shall not read from that book. He is much too dead to attempt a resurrection. His epitaph “OH MY GOD YOU HAVE THE MOST PERFECT VAGINA”. Poetic nah? I think he says that to all the girls. He is/was my kinda monster. But alas…no, nothing else. Just an ‘alas’ and the corresponding sigh.
This new one? There is the faint beeping of an artificial heartbeat. And a maddening ‘but maybe’.
Hail Mary full of Grace…
(*The Princess Bride)
