You were layin’ on the carpet,
Like you’re satin in a coffin.
Y’said, “Do you believe what y’re say’n?”
Yeah, right now, but not that often.
Well you disappeared so often,
Like you dissolved into coffee.
Are you here now or are there
Probably fossils under your meat?
The winter of my father’s death I spent alone with my kooky Aunt Joan in the confines of my cousin’s country cottage. Not so much a cottage as a mini-mansion isolated far off in the sticks, but seeing as how it was a house situated in the sticks…well, you get the picture. And not so much my biological father as my well-meaning heroin-addicted step-father, but seeing as how he was the only father-figure in the last 7 out 11 years of my tragic little life…well, you get that picture too.
Now picture mid-January in mid-Michigan: beautiful, isn’t it? And not so much beautiful as just pristine white blankets of snow on every even partially horizontal surface in any direction you look. Man, the SMB vanilla board on NES doesn’t even look this good. Awww…I wish I had my NES here, not the stupid SEGA my cousin gave his kids for Christmas-—they’re like 4 anyway-—what good would any game console do them?
God, I shouldn’t be thinking about games right now. I’m horrible. My mother and my brother are down there in Philly weeping over his dead body, his dead body donning a red satin suit, lying rigid in a crème satin-lined coffin. I should be weeping. I should be there. I should care. But I didn’t want to go. I didn’t feel bad; I didn’t feel anything.
Does that make me a bad person?