If I were to commit suicide, it would be like this: being locked in a room with Patricia Evangelista and several cases of hard liquor to debate on something I know nothing about. The Tongan political situation, say.
I would drink and she would talk until my ears start to bleed and I pass out into oblivion, my mind bullied into submission by rhetoric and diction, my kidneys already turned to stone. It would be like being Socrates in reverse.
She will probably panic and call for help at some point, but she will do this in such flawlessly-delivered English that everyone will stand around clapping and wiping tears from their eyes as my life slowly slips away. “Jolly good show,” they would say, “jolly good.” And the world will go on, none the wiser about the Tongan political situation.
September 2006. Salvaged from an old livejournal account I deleted in a fit of impotent rage. Disclaimer: This is a totally absurd situation that involves an absurd version of Patricia Evangelista and not the Patricia Evangelista who is dating an old college friend. We’re not even talking about the same girl, really.