In a pitiful, albeit a passing stage of trite sadness and melancholy mixed with a unusual proactive daring I shot myself, and succeeded in killing myself. Except, that I sadly learned to discover, I did not die in the sense that I’d hoped, and my mind was still wide awake and fully functional (but not in the way that I hoped when my body was alive—i.e., able to do fantastical calculations in my head like 17-digit division problems and powers). I just lacked a body. I immediately felt a wave of disgust mixed with genuine sadness and melancholy. I looked at my body; one eye was missing and I won’t describe the rest except to say that I wished to death (ha, ha) I would have looked at my reflection one last time. It would have to rely on memory now. I’d look at those thick black eyelashes, rows on top of each other, and admire my pout and my left dimple. It was too late now! I also noticed, shockingly, that I wore undergarments that should be strictly restricted to a woman’s time of month—oh, how the hell did I do this, how could I fuck up like this—and I got my brother’s couch terribly dirty and I was aware he could not afford a new couch, especially now that he’d have to help pay for my funeral costs. I used to read obituaries and notice the ones that signed off, “In lieu of flowers, lah-dee-dah..”, but I hoped that wouldn’t be the case with me, because I loved tulips and roses and gerber daises and poppies in all hues beautiful, except for purple. Instead of moping about what I’d done I decided I’d only look at the bright side from now on: I congratulated myself on at least naming my brother as the beneficiary on my modest retirement savings; I guess that meant he could reward himself to something he always wanted, like a sailboat or something, but it might have to wait until he’s 59 and 1/2 years old, or something. Oh my god… my parents… they’re going to kill me.