Posted by: theboyfromsmallville | March 22, 2007

10 Things To Do In The Summer When You’re Dead

Because lying around and waiting for worms to decompose whatever’s left of you in a severely cramped sleeping bed with a pizza-thin cushion for pillow just doesn’t quite cut it, right?

And especially, MOST ESPECIALLY, there are days when you wake up in the morning and realize that you had DIED SEVERAL YEARS AGO, SEVERAL TIMES BEFORE.

And it’s summer.

It’s so easy to scribble down to-do’s for the summer as a living, breathing human being. Hit the beach, ogle at curvy females who are never going to come to within ten miles of a date with you in the next three lifetimes and get a tan.

A blast.

Dead? Well, you could round up a few other lost souls for a beer-and-poker party at some run-down apartment and talking about the eulogies you heard during the last day of your wake and laugh about how you’re sorry because FRIENDS, YOU GOT ME ALL WRONG.

So, being an expert on walking the earth as a certified, blood-sucking, life-drained zombie, let me give you a hand at how you can spend this summer.

 After all, it is election year hereabouts. And not just vote. I mean, pick out the really rotten ones and write them down in a ballot. Too bad the guy who promised to pay off all our debts ain’t running. He would have made a perfect choice. Think of it as doing your role in continuing a proud legacy launched by the political equivalent of ghost employees, the last of whom inflicted on us a tiny, hot-headed bundle of useless economic smarts surnamed Arroyo.

 Strap grenades and C4s around you and light it up in the middle of the station. No one will stop you. Heck, no one will even notice you. Every low-level officer will be busy divvying up the day’s loot from errant drivers while the chief is in shut-eyed ecstasy over a blowjob administered by a hooker who wants a hassle-free night on the streets.

 Now would be the perfect time. Hey, you’re dead. You ain’t going to feel a thing. Go out there and find the ONE GIRL who could brighten your day and make you feel truly happy. The one whose name used to be every morning’s first breath and every night’s prayer. The one whose skin so soft and featherish that it made the wind feel like sandpapery hands trying rub you worn in the cold of a storm. The one who took your breath away and gave you the sweetness of hers in one stroke of a kiss. Look her up again and fall hard. And watch your hopes for a gut-tingling summer romance explode into a thousand tiny indistinguishable dreams.

 Yellowfin tuna and bass are for living old people with their beer guts spilling out of their designer jeans cut off just above the knees. For you? Great whites. Drug a politician, run a carving knife at different parts of his body in zigzag fashion, jab a meat hook at the roof of his mouth, attach the hook to a rope and toss him to the ocean. Once you’ve caught a shark, reel him in, laugh hard at him in mocking fashion and give him your most incredulous look. Then say: “I mean, really, Jaws. A POLITICIAN?!”

 People write, they die and their work becomes famous. Imagine if it were the other way around. You die, you write something and you become even more famous. And you don’t even have to worry about nerdy, glory-starved literary critics who think they breathe rarefied air and give their thumbs up only to vague pieces that need to be decoded by the CIA before they can fully appreciated. To hell with them. I do not understand how you get off on telling writing students that their pieces are not even fit for toilet paper while you shower manufactured praise on those who came before you and gave you their approval you sick sycophantic sonafabitch. This is not to vouch for your genius, Mr. Hallmark writer whose every drop of creativity you hemorrhaged all over the gutter long before you attempted to write. But write to be understood first before you write to have a bronzed statue of you erected 50 years later in a university library.

 Audition for a movie role. Or something in a theater. You’re dead. At least, you’ll be a natural in roles that require you to stay dead. This is the Philippines, remember? Where people who call themselves actors can’t act scared even if you duct-taped a dynamite to their crotch and light the wick wearing a menacing grin on your face.

 Write grunge or punk music. Put it this way. People who get left behind by their girlfriends think that what they feel qualifies as angst and write music about it. You’re dead. How the hell can anyone get angst-ier than that? Then pen a nursery-rhyme song, something like: I used to live a life so full/ Now I’m nothing but a walking ghoul/  And just when I thought the worst was over/ I wake to find I look like an ogre… Then jam it up with three-chord combinations that will make people’s brains leak out of their ears.

 Not to scare them, no. But to make them feel that they’re having it worse trying to pretend to be alive in a world utterly deprived of meaning and purpose. Show them how you’re having a grand time dead by fanning your corpse scent all over their homes and giving them a whiff of freshly killed candles wherever they go. Until they decide it’s best to join you in eternal sleepwalkingness.

 Life is like a beer drinking contest. You polish off bottle after bottle hoping to beat everyone out but where does it leave you in the end? Drunkenly celebrating a hollow victory while puking your guts all over the bedroom and grimacing at the pain wrought by a wilted liver that is drier than the Death Valley. It’s better if you would jump into the vehicle of life like a crash test dummy who lost his wife to the car manufacturer CEO who built her a provincial hideaway where he can drop by every weekend to fuck her, attach an anti-burglar lock to the steering wheel so you can only go one direction, start the engine and floor the accelerator. Wait for that blinding moment when the life you used to have flashes before you, the one where laughter wasn’t contrived and where there was space to believe in now shitty concepts as love and fairies and then close your eyes.

 And feel the peace that had always eluded you during your lifetime.

I had other fun-filled activities in mind. But hey. I’m saving them up for the rainy days.



  1. bravo! have a very inspiring writing summer!

  2. nice post…as for forming a band, you can try forming a death metal band…enough of the posers, i wanna see a death metal band made up of dead people…

  3. death metal band made up of dead people!
    And oh, cyberpunk dude… I lived a year without television. I broke my spell just last wednesday and bought a new set.
    Go figure.

  4. […] July 2006 Things to do in the summer when you’re alive April 6, 2008, 2:43 pm Filed under: batang Smallville memoirs, life | Tags: beach, vacation A little over a year ago, I wrote this. […]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: