If I knew the world was coming to an end, I would fuck with impunity. I would crunch birth control pills between my teeth like they were pink Pez all day long. With the specter of annihilation on horizon, all would be carnage and I would need to start regularly shaving my legs.
I have a picture of every man I ever slept with. I’d pin each photo up on my living room wall, use a marker to rank each one based on looks, IQ and technique. I’d invite my friends over to drink and comment on the exhibition. I’d tell them all the secrets I was supposed to keep.
I’d grind RU-486 into my morning breakfast mush, just to be safe. Then I’d go steal one exquisite piece of clothing each day from a high-end department store.
To keep the money coming in I’d deal drugs: heroin, due to the more sedate clientele. I’d buy my father a fishing yacht and my mom an apartment in Paris.
I’d go to the house of this one guy and ask him to return the petite cut velvet blazer I left there a year ago under the assumption I would be invited back. I never was.
I’d fuck Quentin Tarantino. Twice.
I would try to feel good all the time. Life would no longer be the continuing mission of seeking out a quiet frequency on the radio dial or keeping my side of the street clean. I would be an entirely external creature, using anything besides my sense of self to sustain a delirious high.
I would allow the creeping nihilism I’ve kept mostly at bay to erupt like a geyser. My moods would be ruled by the strength of pills, the barrels of booze, and the decadent oblivion of crime, money and sex. After 365 days I’d be burnt to such a magnificent and malignant crisp that I’d welcome death.
Except. On the day the news first broke that it was all going to end, I would get on a flight to ______. I’d go to your apartment, the one I used to have a key to. I’d bang on the door until you opened it. I’d fall at your feet. I’d beg. I’d plead. I’d promise. I’d cry. I’d remind you that it couldn’t last more than a year.
Photo by Michael Lehenbauer, from Flickr.