Some people can think of better ways to live. I have an easier time thinking of shittier ways to die. It can even be a fun contest.

In the wake of such a massive love, such a magic drive to create, the longing stuffed me into its tight marsupial asshole and farted. The hood went up and my eyes sunk into little slits against the cold, stupid masses of New Yorkers. Life took shit after shit on me and I matched the donation almost every time.

As one who has just died finds their bearings among the many rooms of death, they quickly stumble upon a set of circuit breakers. Down a short hallway, past the closets that hold Jupiter, Saturn and assorted brooms, mops and cleaning supplies. Past the courtyard where all the unused tornadoes are kept.

Most people I know, as much as they front, are walking disasters. Baffled by the shit their minds and bodies throw at them, they build elaborate but ridiculous-looking forts to escape the threat of insanity and the marching drums of age and death.