DEath by Desert

The only part of my day I could tolerate out in the desert were the walks, so earlier in the year, I went for a lot of walks. Hours. Of walking.

It's not the same here. The traffic is too fast, and there are too many cars.

But in the desert, you can go out into the sand, and sit somewhere where it's completely still, and you can bake. I imagined dying out there of something as common as dehydration. No technology could save me. NO government agency could rescue me. I would just die. These were my thoughts on those walks.

I mostly wanted to disappear, but disappearing is impossible, and baking is not an easy death. Maybe I'm smarter, or maybe I'm just not that stubborn. People have starved themselves literally to death when no other methods were available--but I only wandered around in the desert in the middle of the afternoon for maximum a couple of hours. You get hot quick.

I found a convenience sdtore, and sat there for a good thirty minute or forty-five minutes. Some guy talked in with the Scarlet Letter. Odd. I was bitter to begin with. Convinced I didn't even talk to my real Grandmother over the phone when I called for her to pick me up. Anymore, she wasn't my grandmother when she was sitting in the house right in front of me. She didn't think I was in trouble. How could she not? Aliens from outer space were fucking attacking. This was real. She just went about life as if it was normal. Not normal. Honey. My semi-half-ass attempts at desert suicide were lame. But I sat on the bench, covered in sand, anyway. I couldn't also figure out what was taking so long. The aliens were probably fucking with the phone so more. Switching around grandma's or some shit. I ended up, when Grandma finally arrived--get this? FUCKING APOLOGIZING. To her. Because she didn't think my life was in danger. "I believe you think it's real," she said. okay. I like that qualification.

I took a shower, and didn't try to kill myself by dehydration anymore.