I guess as I think about it now, though, there were a few other questions lurking underneath. Who created the Earth, and did he have a building permit? Why won't anyone admit that the Gospel According to Scotto actually is a legitimate book of the Bible? Why did they ever take WKRP in Cincinnati off the air? Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near? Is it because you're some kind of big fucking bird magnet? Is that dandruff in your hair, or is it bird seed -- I mean, what's the fucking deal? More importantly, why do people keep inviting you places, when they know they're gonna get a flock of birds no matter what they do?
I spent considerable time pondering the great imponderables. Would you rather freeze to death, or burn to death? Would you rather be shot in the forehead, or stabbed in the throat? Would you rather have to eat your way out of a vat full of mayonnaise, or eat your way out of a vat full of Country Crock margarine? How about this: would you rather eat your way out of a vat full of mayonnaise, or have your nipples slammed repeatedly in a car door? My curiosity was dense and impregnable.
I often found myself wondering if I would ever find my way back to those carefree days when my only concerns were making sure I buried the weapon somewhere different from where I buried the bodies. Making sure that no matter how many times Mom called up to ask about that smell, I would never, ever invite her up for a bite. Making sure that whenever Pedro arrived from Columbia with two dozen condoms worth of cocaine lodged in an uncomfortable spot, I always tipped him a peso or two to let him know I cared. Times were easier then. There was always a Paul McCartney & Wings song on the radio. There was always a Kenny Rogers The Gambler mini series on TV. My friends and I were always face down in a ditch, nearly dead from alcohol poisoning. It was an easier time. A carefree time.
And now? Now I was left with nothing but questions, difficult questions. If a train leaves New York carrying 3,000 pounds of whale blubber and the innards of the world's loneliest Canadian, and it smashes into a bus carrying every child who ever pissed you off on an airplane or in a shopping mall, would anyone mind if I danced upon the wreckage singing "Last Train to Clarksville" while wearing chain mail and slathering myself with bacon grease? More importantly, if I ever got a chance to sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom, would I gain more enjoyment from leaving unseemly stains on the sheets or from carving "J.W.B. was heer!" on the headboard? But perhaps most urgently, would I ever realize my secret lifelong dream of being a ballerina in a Russian opera? The questions kept churning in my mind, with no answers in sight.
It began to look desperate. I sank deep into depression. I began talking to myself, and drinking alone. I made myself read John Grisham novels. I wore nothing but black, painted my face pale white, and began drinking the blood of small rodents. I listened to nasty, ugly, horrible, Satanic music, including Wilson Philips, Winger, and Nelson. I became addicted to heroin, after which came my addiction to Clorox Bleach, which was sadly followed by my addiction to a sarin/napalm concoction I referred to as "BOING!" I entered into an unhealthy relationship with a neighborhood psychopath, the one every body called the Old Crazy Lady. She took horrible advantage of my pain, even going so far as to call me a "big sissy" in front of other people. Eventually, she left me for someone else, someone less pathetic and who didn't call her "you big dumbass" all the time, and I slid even deeper into misery.
And always -- the questions. Why me? Why was I made to suffer so? Why, O why, was I abandoned to my fate? Why in the hell do people eat "tofu jerky"? Is the person who stumbled onto the formula for Crazy Glue still stuck to something? Do people in Brazil ever say to each other, "Wake up and smell the coffee"? Would anyone miss Gil Gerard if I just, you know, took him out in the desert somewhere and set him on fire or something? Has somebody already done that, and I just haven't noticed? What about Erik Estrada? Can I torch him and get away with it? There must be somebody I can torch!
There seemed to be no end to my misery, no escape from my desperation. I lost my job at the local hot dog processing plant after discovering just exactly where they draw the line about what kinds of stuff you can throw into those vats. I called my mother to see if she had any cash she could loan me, but she had squandered the family fortune playing Bingo and was now living in a garbage can. My dealer got busted, and I went into withdrawal. For three weeks I was able to do nothing but play the pan pipes while the demon drug worked its way out of my system. Just my luck that my downstairs neighbors hated the pan pipes. Well, sure, I mean, they tried to claim they just hated the amps I was using, but I knew the truth. It was me they hated. Me and my pan pipes of abject despair.
I finally hit rock bottom one lonely winter afternoon. I was killing pigeons in the park with my slingshot and eating their raw, diseased flesh when I decided I had had enough. I mean, you get full on raw pigeon pretty quick. Suddenly I realized that my will to live had left me altogether. I no longer deserved to call myself human. I was ready to leave this horrible world the same way I came into it: bloody and screaming. The only question now was:
I decided then that I would leap off the Space Needle in Seattle. And so, I packed my bags and began the hike across country...