Because I can

There are just some times when you wonder, how did it all go this far?

Lindsay Lohan knows what I mean.

This child has been through the mill and back again. Once considered box office gold, she couldn’t get hired now if she offered to do a nude scene for free; she’s uninsurable. Even for porn.

Lindsay must sit in her Malibu estate, surrounded by beautiful things while waiting for the repo man to knock, snorting a line of coke (if she can even afford it anymore) then sit back and wonder how it all went so terribly wrong.

Aside from everything leading up to “sit back” that’s my life too. No repo men, no estate, no coke (unless Diet Coke counts, but it’s terribly hard to snort). Just me in my messy house, watching House, thinking about paying for my house, and wondering what fucked up nonsense led up to this state and condition. Moreover, how to correct it — if it can be corrected.

Quite frequently I wonder if it simply wouldn’t be easier to just put myself to sleep. So easy to OD on Vic’s and Ambien — I would never even notice my own passing — no one would find me for at least a few weeks, so I’d need to make sure the dog was taken care of. M would get frustrated and mad because I wasn’t answering the door or the phone, but instead of breaking down the door and thinking I was dead (something he might have done a few months ago), he’d just throw up his hands, yell “bitch”, and walk away. I’m guessing they’ll find me when the power gets shut off because after the A/C shuts off, the smell from my rotting body would surely attract attention from someone walking by. Especially when they figure the dog hadn’t been let out, they hadn’t seen me, then discover an awful smell coming from the upstairs bedroom.

So I’d have to make sure the house was in order first. I’d have to clean my house — God told me in a dream once that he’d never let me die unless my house is clean — I know it’s silly that I believe that, but it’s true. Then, I’d have to make sure I myself was freshly showered and shaved (hair keeps growing after you die, but I don’t want to be altogether embarassed). I’d want fresh linens on the bed, and any porn links on the computer erased. Any diaries that I wouldn’t want read should be destroyed. Anything in the house of an… er… “personal” nature should be thrown away the week before (don’t want anyone going through the trash for clues). Nice and organized. After all, when they discover your body, you want to leave a good impression — it’s the last one you’re ever going to leave. I’d need to make sure my will was in order and my stuff distributed as I’d prefer it. I don’t think I can do anything about my… er… biological “systems” evacuating once I die, but I imagine morticians are used to that sort of thing, so I won’t worry about it.

I should leave my work desk in good order. Jobs sorted as necessary so someone else can take over when I don’t show up the next day. Email should be erased. Links and cookies cleared. Personal items sorted and boxed so my coworkers don’t have to do it when I’m gone. I can’t imagine a more morbid task than for someone you barely knew to be forced to go through your things when you die.

I’d have to write letters to anyone I felt it necessary to leave last words to, though I can’t imagine who that would be. Probably letters that say things like, “Please don’t blame yourself” — stuff like that — except for those who I’d want to carry some shame, of course. Haha!

The housecleaning part would be the most troublesome and time consuming of course, so I doubt I’d ever really kill myself. I wouldn’t want anyone to see the chaos I live in, but I don’t care enough about killing myself to clean it up.

So that’s how I live day after day despite wishing I were dead: I’m lazy.