that aternoon, fred my shrink. When you’ve really and trulydecided to kill yoursel, what’s the point o a shrink?That was also satisying. Both the fring and the deciding.Then I positively on-purpose hit the car o the asshole whoalways parks six inches across my building’s driveway. I took his bumper hal o and did not leave a note, because he deserved it.I’ll be dead in thirty days. Let him try to take me to small claimscourt.Upstairs, I did not hang up my jacket and drank orange juicestraight rom the carton. I even spit in it a little because I could. All exceptionally satisying. That’s when I decided I didn’t liketea very much.
Crash. Crash-crash. Crash-crash-crash.
I should’ve done this ages ago.The edges o my studio are or living. That’s where I keepmy kitchen, my television, and, o in the corner behind somerepurposed red velvet curtains, my bed. The center is where Iwork. That’s not a metaphor. It’s a spatial description. The com-mute rocks.I ipped through a stack o stretched canvases leaning againstthe rough stucco wall.No, no, no, no. Yes.I picked a square one, our eet by our eet. That would do.I dropped it onto the easel. I’d fred Jenny, my assistant, theweek beore, just ater she’d stretched hal a dozen o these.Her last name is Pritchard, too, no relation. She’s twenty-our and looks even younger. When I let her go, she looked at me asi I’d slapped her hard across the ace. Even her cheeks turnedred. Tears pooled in her bottom lashes, and she tore around theplace snatching up papers and her bag and fnally a coee mug I’d given her when she frst started. I should’ve had her prime thecanvases, too, beore she let, but I hadn’t thought o it.