You can die in real life, real life has no appeal. But sometimes, I wish I were in real life, in a coma on a hospital bed in a cold room surrounded by fragrant flowers. I wish I were there, my hands laced over my stomach, a batch of flowers beneath my fingers like in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Because my lips would be red and I would be dead and the only difference would be that no one would be there to mourn over me.
Crap, that sounded really deep and sad, so don’t worry, that’s not really happening to me.
I’m actually in a desert right now. It’s a hot, stinging, unsympathetic desert. It’s a bastard, too. The sun and the sand are allies; I can feel it in my bare feet. I carry the sun on my back, like a backpack in middle school, and that’s as much of a hellhole as this place.
Funny thing is in this situation, I don’t entirely know why I’m here or why I’m walking where my shadow takes me, so I might be moving in circles, I don’t know. But my legs are slow, so agonizingly slow and all I can think about is drinking some water. Because what is the ocean without a moon? It’s nothing, it’s boring and dull and frankly I don’t believe that water would be on the Earth if it weren’t for the moon. Okay I need to stop thinking about water.
Bye Bye Miss American Pie by Don Mclean is streaming through my head right now, and pictures of Chris Pine and cats.
“Did you write the book of love, and do you have faith in God above?”
Obviously not, God wishes to see me suffer.
And oh, how I wish to lay down on the ground, but that will just entertain the sun and sand all the more, because it’ll feel like I’d be getting a stabbing back massage by Satan himself.
At least Satan would try to be hospitable.
Sometimes I stop, holding the leather straps of the sun backpack on my shoulder blades and turn around to look at my footprints; the only thing is they aren’t there. The warm, unsatisfying, annoying winds of the desert wisp them away with a brush of bastardness just like the sun and the sand. How the hell am I supposed to get out of here if no one knows I’m here, and they won’t ever know I’m here, because of the winds of bastard? What a jerk.
I’ll just keep walking, I guess.
The sun can only be an annoying bag of dicks for so long, so he goes to rest, along with the sand, he can’t be hot forever, unlike RDJ if you’re picking up what I’m putting down.
So I slide off my leather straps and sit in the coldness of the desert, and now it’s really cold. But now I can lie on my back and use my hands as pillows beneath my head.
The stars look like reflecting diamonds in the sky. But their background is like a deep ocean blue. It wavers through the shield of heat waves, waves like the ocean. (By the way diamonds don’t shine, Rhianna.)
I see the big dipper, the little one, Scorpio, Artemis. Are they close together in the world? I don’t know. I was never one for books. I point to them and keep my hand in the air for a long time, the blood rushes down to my shoulder, making my hand become numb and cold and my skin finally feels normal rather than stained red.
“Neverland,” I say aloud, imagining a boy lying beside me. He’s blond too, with eyes like whiskey wearing a blue and green striped shirt with tan shorts. I don’t know who this boy is but he smiles at me and I smile back. I grab for his hand but I waver through him as if he’s made of mist, and that’s ridiculous because he can’t be, we’re in a desert. “Peter Pan lives there, y’know.”
“That’s cool,” he says.
“Do you even know who Peter Pan is?”
“Not really, he’s some ten year old boy or something that can fly, right?”
I let my cold arm, which feels lighter than a feather slump down onto the sand and give him a look. “Why the hell did I imagine you up?”
“Because, I’m cute?” He offers. There’s no lying about that.
I ignore his comment, “Peter Pan can fly, yeah, but from pixie dust.”
“He some sort of girly boy?”
I’d slap this guy upside the head if I could touch him.
“No, he’s—oh, I give up.”
“Change the song,” the boy says irritably, “You’ve been listening to Miss American Pie all day.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I cross my arms over my chest, which burns a little bit, I wince.
“Baby,” he sticks out his tongue at me.
“You try walking in the sun all day,” I counter, “See how you like it.”
“Maybe I will.”
Well, the song changed, Bon Jovi- Dead or Alive is playing now. It sort of fits what’s happening right now. I’m sitting on a mound of ice, snow, slush, whatever you want to call it. It doesn’t matter because I can’t feel my butt anyway.
At least I have a coat on, it’s big and brown and puffy. Thick tickling fur rims the hood and it blows harshly into my face from the frosty icy wind.
“Wanted dead or alive,” Sing it, Bon Jovi.
What am I? Am I dead, or am I alive? I have absolutely no idea what’s going on right now but hey, I’m acting pretty chill about it, aren’t I? I’m laughing at my terrible pun.
Could Jack Frost just swoop down here already and give me a little company? I mean the one from that Disney movie, yeah. I wonder if he invented chill.
The wind stops, and all is still, and I look around at the white, that’s all it is. I bet from afar I look like a poop smudge in the snow and the people will always say: Don’t eat the yellow snow!
But what about the brown snow, no one’s ever cautioned their kid from that, now have they? So maybe I’ll be picked up by a giant six year old and I’ll be eaten, that’d be pretty cool. Oh man, I’m on a roll.
“Echo!” I call out. Sure enough, my voice rings back three times, fading out slowly each time it repeats, “Echo, echo, echo.” Is echo even a word? It doesn’t look like a word.
“Where am I?” I call out. “Where am I, where am I, where am I.”
“I’m an idiot!”
“You’re an idiot, you’re an idiot, you’re an idiot.”
I see some movement in the distance, giant white blobs. Then one turns, black eyes, black nose. Polar bear. I stand up, maybe I can get mauled to death and die and return to the desert because I really don’t like it here.
I stumble down the mound, rolling forward, caking my whole body in snow. Crap, I can’t feel my face. I think I might have gotten some frost bite over my sun burn, but I stand up and start waddling over to the bears anyway.
I wave frantically, my lips try to smile, I open my mouth and in the worst Russian accent I’ve ever done I shout: “Hello, comrades!” Caught their attention, works every time.