Hemingistheway To Go!

Through distilled hubris my inflated ego has envisioned copulating with the soil upon every planet made visible via science. But my autophobia reminds me that, if I say “fuck the world” too loudly, I may reproduce. And a suicide pact is so Sex Pistols.

I have denied myself access to the medicine cabinet on numerous occasions, because if self termination through an act of consumption isn’t stereoscopically American, damnit, I don’t know what is.

Suicide prescriptions are the new Lays, baby. You can’t eat just one. Too much cholesterol. Too much W.O.W. Gun violent. Police “mistakes”. AIDS. Mad cows. Happy beavers. Holy rollers. Choose your destiny. Maybe I’ll just eat a Baconator & chase it with a Double Stack while standing outside of a non-smoking bar, in the wrong part of town, with a Lucky Strike in my gullet. Decisions, decisions.

I need an anti-consumerism way to go. Maybe I’ll smash my brain in with an Ad- Busters. It wont make me happy, & I’ll have to buy it at Barns & Noble for 9 dollars. A Yippie, yuppie, hipster, scene kid send off? How idealistic of me.

Hemingistheway to go.

But bullets cost more than gas and only send you in one direction…though it does include that cool fireproof hand basket. Plus you’re not allowed to siphon a slug from someones skull with a rubber hose unless you’re a doctor, so there’s no chance of recycling.

Is black on black still in style? Violence, not dating.

The truth is, I don’t want to go. I just know that I have to. And it’s not an issue of why I’m going, it’s an issue of where. I just know that when that day arrives, I want my last words to be, “I had a great time, but I gotta go. I love you. Pax.”. Not, “Man, I should have don’t this sooner. Where’s that laughing coming from? What smells like bacon?”.