Fixin' to Die

Whoopee—We're All Gonna

Every day, I take a cocktail of fuck-you-you-fucking-fuck. The morning dose is Prozac. With dinner, I take a Klonopin. And the bedtime dose is Trazodone. The result? I sleep another night, and I live another day.

The worst part is that I still don’t know whether living another day is a good thing or a bad one.

OK, sure I do. It’s better to be alive. I don’t know what it would be like to be dead, but I am guessing you can’t make lamps (even a “Lamp unto my Feet,” which I used to watch when I was a kid). And there’s probably no beer where I’m going unless it’s some shit like Bud Light.

Death is the only thing that makes being an atheist difficult. There are no stories to make us feel better about the end. There’s no promise of virgins or heaven, of seeing your old dogs again. And really, that’s the only reason to want to go—the dogs. And your folks. And your grandparents and parents-in-law. You know, people you like.

Otherwise, I’m pretty good with the idea that there’s nothing else but this. That’s why it’s so important to make this count.

Actual doe in rugged part of actual neighbor’s actual yard.

Today, that meant tossing an apple to an injured doe that’s been resting in my neighbor’s yard. She has a bloody leg, but it doesn’t seem to be life-threatening. I learned today that in Maryland, you can’t call a rescue for an adult deer. I guess we have too many. That’s why this one took refuge in the backyard behind us—here in Baltimore City.

How else can you make this life count? Respect. Look people in the eyes when you speak to them, whether they’re a Jehovah’s Witness at your front door or the cleanup crew at your job or the fishmonger. Look your server in the eye. Place your orders with kindness and respect. These are just tiny little things.

Though I’m an atheist, I believe wholeheartedly in the golden rule. I also believe (and this will one day be a tattoo across my back) these words: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?”—Rabbi Hillel.

Sometimes it just means helping a stranger return a broken vacuum at Sears by taking her side while you’re in line for something else. Sometimes it means standing up for someone who can't. Sometimes it means being an old man shaking his fists.

But you know what it doesn’t mean? Setting yourself on fire.

Martyrdom was great for Jesus. He now has followers all over the world. And what, I ask you, has that gotten us? Less “do unto others” and more “other the others.”  But Jesus didn’t nail himself up there. I guess if you’re done living, self-immolation is one hell of an exit interview. I’m just not sure it shines as bright a light on the thing you’re protesting as it does on you.

On the flip side of that, the whole “vote” thing is bullshit. By all means, vote! But voting shouldn’t be a protest. (Besides, if you think your side has a poor record on certain wars, the other side’s is way worse.)

There are plenty of ways to protest. I particularly like withholding the patronage of certain businesses and disrupting the sleep of certain politicians.

But my personal favorite form of protest is to make something—a photograph, a painting, a song—something that brings awareness to an atrocity in a way that resonates with people who might otherwise not feel anything.

I’m not naïve enough to think a song could end a war. (“Feel Like I’m Fixin’ to Die,” anyone?) However, it often moves people to action with their dollars, and that’s what hurts the soulless the most.

But what do I know? I’m not good at this. I make lamps that shine a light on coffee tables. I write poems that smash the patriarchy with a frying pan. I take pictures of my dog showing off his phantom balls.

Ziggy showing off his actual phantom balls

The alternative, for me, is not martyrdom but just plain ol’ death. Either one is going to make my family distraught, but I don’t need people to know my name. Sadness and anger are expected from anyone who’s paying attention, even those of us who get help a little help from the fuck-you trilogy:  Prozac, Klonopin, and Trazodone.

Whoopee!