I’m twenty-eight. In the middle of the night, unprecedented, I suffer a seizure. I contract adult onset epilepsy like food poisoning. During my spectacular, public seizures––and they create dramatic scenes––I find the attention exhilarating.

 
I’m thirty-four. My first wife tells me she’s having an affair. I’m giddy, thinking, “Everyone’s going to blame you.” I tell her to get out. I’m keeping the dog. Goddamn, I’m excited.  

I’m forty, at home waiting for mom to die, excited. I love(d) my mother dearly. I call(ed) her everyday. They told us at the hospital that if her vitals crash they’ll inject morphine and let her fade away. 

There’s probably a name for this exhilaration that only exists in German.   

 
When someone weeps over loss, it strikes me as theater.

If I tell anyone I’m scared, I resent them. 

It’s cold in here. I’d ask for help, but I don’t want it. 

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