I looked at Rontel and thought about how pretty he was. How much I loved him. How, actually no, if he died it probably wouldn’t affect me. Like, there was nothing to be taken from me that would affect me. Like, I’d trained myself to feel no harm. True sadness. Let me show you how a real man endures true sadness.

So I had to run over to my girlfriend’s. It was five and a half miles. I liked running over. It was cheaper and faster than the train too. In fact, fuck the train and fuck Chicago and fuck each United State. I went home and put shorts on and lay on the floor, sweating, vowing—to myself if no one else—to figure out a way to kill everyone in Chicago.

After reviewing the paper towels, I found a product no one had reviewed. Earplugs. I wrote this review: “Wow, just…disappointing.” Then realized I was writing the review about myself. Then realized every negative thing I’d ever said was about me too. Ouch ouch ouch. Stinging!

After the shower, I noticed my only towel wasn’t clean. It smelled really bad and had crumbs all over it and I think Rontel pissed on it and it would probably give me a rash. So I got some paper towels and used them to dry myself off. At first, looking at the sheets of paper towel, I thought—This is the saddest thing that will ever happen to me. But no. That’s silly. Using paper towels to dry off after showering might not be bad. Why get upset. Why get upset about anything. Everything felt automatic. Controlled. Control yourself. Ok, I will. No, you don’t even know how to start. That’s true. Look at the paper towels. Dry yourself. It’s a new day. Start this new day. You can do anything you want, just have to dry off with those paper towels first. Exciting. Exciting because I knew if I wanted, it could be the beginning of a new period in my life. One where I solved problems as they happened. One where I solved problems before they even had all their elements. A new period where I eliminated problems before they were problems. With no fears or concerns, because those were for people who viewed life as a future, not something already happening. A period where I thought, “No future”—and meant it positively. A period where I stood up and said, “Yes, I have used paper towels to dry myself off after showering, and I don’t care if I do it again and again—except for the cost of buying the paper towels.” This is it—I thought, standing in my bathroom naked and dripping, already sweating again. This is all there is. Nothing else outside of being here right now, naked and dripping. Sweating. No end to the recycling. Just keep going keep going. Stop thinking. I began to dry myself off. Noticed you can’t use the same drying motion with paper towels as you can with a fabric towel. Truly, two different towels. The best method was to fold two connected paper towels in half—over each other—then gently touch them down over the wet areas of your body. Scrubbing motions wrinkled and tore the paper towels. I was able to dry off my whole body with about three paper towels, adding a third to the first two near the end. In conclusion, using paper towels to dry off: not bad! It was a nice, fun way to keep dry. Something new. Also, it kind of made me feel like an escaped prisoner, or someone running from someone else maybe, maybe some kind of secret government agency. Like I’d broken into someone’s apartment and had to use whatever was available then quickly escape. Have to get out quick—I thought, smiling. Have to escape. I thought about escaping as I dried off. Then I thought—No, this is all there is. Can’t get out. Rontel came into the bathroom and licked water off my shin then drank water from the faucet in the bathtub. He sat under the faucet sticking his tongue out to each drip. Timed. And I folded the paper towels and threw them on the floor. On top of all the old hair and beard clippings from when I’d cut my hair or beard without sweeping. But yeah, paper towels. Not bad!

Honestly though, at some point, it would be my time to get shot. Every couple days/weeks someone got shot in the area. I awaited it eagerly. It would define me. Definition: Shithead shot dead on the street, found with receipt from a four dollar and fifty-three cents purchase at a gas station in his pocket. Sometimes I’d be walking down the street and get a sense that it was about to happen. That it was my day. That the universe had arranged itself perfectly around this very day, for me to get shot. That the universe’s creation supported one final moment in a long series of other seemingly important moments, and it involved bullets in my head and chest. And all I’d have to do is relax myself and allow the bullets into my body. Focus my mind on it happening. Sustain the focus and let it finish. I’d take the first shot, the next shot, multiple shots, spreading across my chest in a series of bloody holes. And no disagreement. I’d be no different. Just put my hands over the bloody holes in my shirt and say, “Hey, you ruined my shirt, man.” Bleeding to death. Like to get me some of that action. “Like to get me some of that action” was a phrase I recently started using. I started saying it after I saw this cop the other day. I wanted to ask the cop how much money was made through drugs every year in Chicago—then when he approximated something, I was going to slap my hands together and rub them a little, saying, “Like to get me some of that action.”

I thought—Summer is weird because I always forget that it happens and what it’s like when it does happen and then it happens and I remember. Always surprisingly unique and lovely. This summer I’m going to kill myself—I thought. And felt confident I would.

And I realized that part of my problem was I visibly resembled an adult. But never became one. People viewed me as an adult but I was just shit. I always expected adulthood to happen, to make, like, a popping or dinging sound when it did. But no. Newly twenty-nine years old and nowhere near anything different than ever before. Not even youthful. Just the same pile, moving around. Shifting anxieties—moving a pile of lead around to different areas of the same giant bare room. To then realize I’ve become the pile. The truth. All just one time period. One big now. No adulthood. Rapidly moving away from any kind of connection. I could imagine borders around periods of my life to make it seem like I’d become a different person, but that would just be a failure to see there was no more changing or nearness of change as the person on either side of those imagined borders. Not sure. Not important. Not going to shower today. (Third day in a row, yeah!) What if I just donated all my organs and everything useful about me right now, even the few good thoughts I’d had. What if I walked into a hospital and said, “I’m going to kill myself anyway, you want my shit or not, come on”—then wait a second and say, “Come on, talk to me talk to me let’s go.” I saw myself entering the hospital and confidently walking up to the front desk, resting my elbow on the counter. “Yeah, come on, let’s see a doctor, sweetheart,” I’d say, regardless of the front desk worker’s gender—and I’d be snapping. “Come on come on.” Then, even if the employee was talking to me, say, “Talk to me here, come on.” Let me show you how a real man sits on the train and stares, uninterested, briefly able to visualize his body hollowed out of all its operative parts.

I walked on down Western Avenue and found myself changing thoughts rapidly, attempting to stop each one before it happened fully. Saw thoughts coming at me like little birds on fire, and I dodged or parried each one. Some I dodged by moving my head to the left or right, some I dodged by lifting my right or left shoulder up enough to deflect them. Some came fast and some came lazy, undeveloped, and sideways. Others I ducked under with ease, smiling. Because few were ever helpful. Most just recurred and made me feel terrible. Episodes. Recycled in my head at frequencies causing great pain and discomfort. The terrible divide between trying and being ready to try. The training. Which never worked because it was never the thing actually happening. Sweating. Worried I could never be myself because of always having to account for so much else.