How do I Disconnect My Feeding Tube?

Since April of 2003, I have been in a persistent vegetative state, which in my case means unemployed.

I languish day in and day out in a coma of no expectations, no schedule, no deadlines, and no income. I have done absolutely nothing these last two years, and have nothing to show for it. Duh.

Perpetually bored, I entertain visions of my vanishing car, home, jewels, ok--jewel,computer, and cds. The fear of becoming destitute alleviates the doldrum, for a while. Eventually, the paranoia gets old and predicatble. When fear is no longer a motivator, ennui takes on a deadly air.

I should have perished by my own hand months ago. After reading up on the deaths of my heroes--Syliva Plath, Anne Sexton, Frida Kahlo, Dorothy Parker, and others, implosion seems inevitable for creative people, especially writers, who work and for the most part, live in isolation. Caving in on oneself. That is the dreaded fate of the artist. I've done my homework, and preparation is on my mind often.

Off and on, over the years, I've written goodbye notes, instructions for next-of-kin, and have put most of my affairs in order, but I've continually put off the deed for one reason or another. Sometimes it's to keep an appointment on my calendar. Last week it was because I had jury duty. But lately, it's just because there's something good on television that night, or that week.

I'm not as worried about never finding out how my life would have turned out, or about getting to see what I'll look like when I'm old, about my family and friends having to deal, as I am worried about missing an episode of Survivor, or America's Top Model, or Deadwood. And since there is now a Law & Order for every night of the week, I'm committed until rerun season. But as soon as network TV goes into hiatus, Six Feet Under will start it's new (and final) season on HBO. The thought of being kept alive by television--indefinitely, terrifies me.

A steady diet of reality TV, crime drama, and cable access cheap thrills are all that keep me from gassing myself into the Everafter. The boob tube, in its cruel and unrelenting electromagnetism, anchors me to this mortal coil. So I wait. Wait for the remote battery to run down. Wait until there's no extra money for cable, then no money at all for electricity. Wait for the machine and it's blue aura to go dark. Then I'll let nature take its course.

Cindy