A potato and a crisation
Cevited on October 12, 2025.
I am dead.
“By the time you read this, I will be dead.” I’ve always wanted to say that. But I have been dead for weeks. So I guess I would never be able to. I snorted harrumphilly and went back to moldering away under the ground.
I wondered if the potatoes in my pantry were sprouting, casting roots about in the dark, in a vain search for dirt in which to burrow. I wondered how they were getting along without me. Were they lonely? Were they depressed? Did they wonder why I wasn’t slicing them into little strips, immersing them in boiling oil, or mashing them beyond recognition?
I wondered when Satan was going to start gnawing on my skull like he has been Brutus, Judas, and Longinus all these centuries. Anticipation itself was becoming torture.
I wondered if the fluoride they put in my water was making my potted plants dumb. I wondered if Mr. Van Der Woobie was still geezing to and fro on Bouillabaisse Boulevard.
I wondered why “cevition” and “crisation” never became words in English—or “defutution” for that matter.
I went back to moldering away some more. It was most peaceful.
My chronic nose hair dandruff was actually boogers, I realized right then. And was my navel dandruff nothing more than bellybutton lint? But what of my persistent nipple dandruff?
I am dead. The dead do not wonder. The dead do not realize. But we do molder away.
I went back to moldering away.