January 9, 2013

Sat in the Thai Citrus in Weaverville waiting for a lunch I didn’t really want, thinking of methods of suicide. The issue is complicated for me (in addition to being, at the moment, academic) because I fear pain and fear becoming an invalid. People say that drowning is horrific, but how would anyone who has actually drowned know? Hope for a plane crash so nobody blames you? I contemplate the wisdom of buying a gun quickly, in case all the talk of gun control comes, this time, to anything. I think my longtime fall-back of jumping from a high bridge is still in the running, as well as the more recent idea of waiting for a cold day in Fairbanks, getting staggering drunk, and then wading out into the snow. I grumble under my breath at those who have access to the pills that would make the whole thing easier.  How does a layman get those pills? Is it like illegal drugs, that if you ask the right person who knows the right person . . . ? How desperate would I have to be to overcome my really rather remarkable impulse for self-preservation? Then my sweet and sour chicken arrives.

Summoned for jury duty. This happens every half dozen years or so, though I’ve never served. I think I would probably be bad at it, impatient, unable to tamp down my various pre-conceptions.

Addiction to Russian car-crash complications on You Tube, from which one learns that the Russians are the worst drivers in the world, that they all have video cameras on their dash to record their badness, and even they don’t know how to drive on the ice.