- Remember that apathy is a coping mechanism.
- Eat all the chocolate.
- In the house. All the chocolate that exists in the house.
- Don’t go out to buy more chocolate if it is raining.
- If it is not raining, cuddle your cat, your dog, your fish (the fishbowl, don’t take the fish out), or your stuffed animal. Then go out and get more chocolate.
- Once you’ve eaten enough chocolate to make you throw up, let loose. Try to aim at the toilet bowl but if that doesn’t work, any surface is fine. Maybe even better. More memorable.
- Vomited chocolate looks remarkably like old blood. Brown and sticky and vaguely metallic in your mouth.
- Remember that chocolate is a coping mechanism.
- Look at the chocolate you threw up. Think of it as blood.
- Feel the pain in your stomach. In your throat. The pounding in your head. Imagine that after hours of dancing. Keel over. Pretend you’ve been shot.
- Realize that unless you go out and try it, you will never approximate what getting shot is like.
- Stop blaming other people.
- It’s all your fault.
- The apathy.
- The tiredness.
- The knowledge that you should be sad.
- The intellectual response that is being appalled yet functional.
- Remember that it is all.
- Not the shooting.
- Only the aftermath.
- Try to imagine a loved one.
- Your mom.
- Your dog.
- The fish.
- Picture them getting brutally murdered.
- If you feel something, let yourself cry. You’ve accessed it. The place you’ve been hiding all this time.
- If you feel nothing, find a box of pins. Or paperclips that you can bend and make pointy.
- Insert the pins, the pointy paperclips, anything sharp, into your eyeballs.
- See the truth.
- See why you’re unable to feel.
- Think of your history with violence.
- Think of how you’ve learned to be blase.
- Because you’ve had to.
- Or you’d always be scared.
- Remember you used to live this way.
- Remember you’re not useful this way.
- Remember you are giving into the oppressor when you are not useful.
- Never forget.
- That is the only way for you, apathetic slug that you are, to feel something.
- Until you die a little inside. It’ll happen eventually.
- When it does, forgive yourself.
- Not too much.
- Just enough to keep going.
High Priest Jonas, son of Azekial, of the long-standing Levi line, looked exactly like any other homeless man wandering about the streets of the capital city. Unlike them, however, he carried in his heart the knowledge of his noble lineage.
He walked through the alleyways of stone and dirt every day, and watched the washing hung out to dry between the windows of the buildings on either side of him. He counted socks, shirts and pants and tried to figure out how many people lived in each apartment. Sometimes he sat under a washing line and let the water from badly wrung clothing drip onto his dirty green coat and his matted and tangled brown hair. He liked that, because it meant he walked around for the rest of the day with the smell of laundry detergent mixed in with the alcohol, body odor and bad breath that surrounded him.
He couldn’t clearly remember where he’d been before the street. He thought that there was a home, maybe a job and a family as well. He distinctly remembered there being a lot of wine. Much more wine than he was able to put his hands on these days.
The problem with Jonas, the other homeless agreed, was that he thought himself superior. None of the others were strangers to madness – they’d all had brushes with the crazies or else had gone through insane phases themselves, but none of them tried to pretend that they were better than anyone else. But Jonas turned his nose up at them. He’d tried, at first, to teach them, to collect followers, but once they told him to go away, using nasty vocabulary, he decided that they weren’t worth his time.
Jonas didn’t see things this way. In his opinion, the ones who shared the city-streets with him had hurt his pride and mocked him, and for that he would never forgive them. Maybe one day, if they would deign to apologize, he would acknowledge them and help them to salvation.
Meanwhile, however, he’d found himself a different companion. Bobo, a hamster in a green cage, was beside him day and night. He was a stalwart friend – his nose quivered in anticipation whenever Jonas gave him food and he would emit high-pitched squeaks of satisfaction when the man tickled his stomach. Jonas was pleased with him.
One evening in October, the High Priest took Bobo to one of his favorite haunts. It was one of the coffee-shop chains that filled the city streets, but unlike many others, there weren’t waiters. Instead, people ordered their coffee inside and then took their mugs to the outdoor seating area when the weather was nice or if they were smokers. The staff rarely came outside to collect the dirty dishes, so Jonas could sit at a table all evening without being shooed off the premises.
“Look, Bobo,” he grinned, broken teeth bared. “This is a nice table, right? A nice table.” He put the cage down and sat on a red plastic chair. His coat was bulky and uncomfortable and the table rocked as he hit it with his knee. Instinctively, he shot out an arm to hold the cage steady. Bobo sniffed his thanks, directing his tiny nose at Jonas’ hand.
He scoped out the area around him. There was a bar behind him, small and tucked into a crevice of the little complex. In front of him were other tables and chairs like his, with people sitting at them. He saw that none of his enemies were there and breathed a sigh of relief. He could work in peace. He crooned once at Bobo before taking out paper and a stubby bit of pencil.
He leaned forward and began to write. The people who sat around him watched him warily, like they watched all homeless men and women who came too close to their comfy worlds. Jonas didn’t mind – he knew that they watched him merely because they were drawn to his nobility. Even if they didn’t know it, they were dimly aware of the majesty that was in his tall, wide frame. He pretended not to notice their staring and continued writing, working as always on his lists and his plans.
“Mommy, mommy, there’s a homeless man with a hamster!” a little boy’s voice rang out.
“Shh!” the boy’s father picked him up and carried him away, glancing back fearfully to make sure that the boy’s yell hadn’t angered the man.
Jonas frowned sadly, but the boy’s father couldn’t see the expression through his wild, tangled beard.
“Yes, I have a hamster,” Jonas said quietly, looking down at Bobo. “He is my friend.”