How to Kill Once More

If your lakesidve abode has become a den of bitter recrimination, unspoken as not, and secrets have dimmed even the blue energy of concupiscence, then castigate and altercate like it was going out of style.

One: If one morning Catherine removes every glass, bowl, and spoon from their appropriate resting places to dust and scrub the resting places themselves, remind her of your enthusiasm for order and how appalling it is to lack control over one’s own abode. If Catherine screams words like,

“Someone’s got to do it!” and “Who was your maid last year!” try to amend your psycho-physical bond with a nice hug. If she shirks you off, feel as a dying meteor might: regionallyappropriate to Sudbury.

Two: If love has not been learned, question whether or not a lifelong and life-ruining eulogistic paean to Catherine was even the smart play.

Three: Realize your eulogistic paean was only the paean of adolescence itself.

Four: If I’ve Made Up My Mind To Give Myself To You by Bob Dylan on the Bose has negligible effect, give in to your anger and play Nine Inch Nails instead. Play some Rammstein. Play that song by Rammstein where they say their own name a bunch of times: Rammmmsteeeeeeein. Play some Stalaggh. The extra G and H at the end standing for global holocaust, a happening their music aspires to bring about, incidentally. If Catherine says, “Turn that shit off!” in the most hateful voice you’ve yet heard from her, and this hate invalidates the times you’ve known, then peaceably rebut, “I could be rich and famous and nootropically-balanced and pushing a Baby Dior Bassinet through Golden Gate Park but I traded it all in for you, you harpy. ’”

Five: If these words cause Catherine to fling plates like frisbees, predict abandonment and espy the metal Easton in the umbrella stand. Espy the bat and foresee the unthinkable. Wish Dr. Whybrow had more capably explained how to block unwanted thoughts in the prefrontal neocortex.

Six: Grasp the bat. Take a practise swing.

Seven: Come to your senses. Exit the matrimonial home. Feel better as soon as Stalaggh and your harpy sister are out of your ear. Play Sam Harris’ Waking Up meditation app on your phone. Hate even even-keeled Sam Harris. Place the Easton in the driver’s seat of the marital Corvette. Peel out of the driveway like the petulant teenager you are. Drive to the University of Sudbury. Consult the campus map. Find the Jungian Psychology wing.

Eight: Find the Iz amongst hirsute undergrads. Do not pause to consider consequences. Swing the bat at his head. Cave his head in. Note the undergrads’ unwillingness to sacrifice their own bearded skulls to rescue the Dean from the underworld. Swing away. If viscera and meninges and dura matter splash into your face, you’ve made a terrible mistake.

Nine: If you can’t conceivably bat to death all these undergrads, who’ve done nothing wrong, and some of whom must recognize you from bi-monthly Philemon Foundation fundraisers, and who are already running as far from this archetypically-unpleasant situation as they can get, that means you were foredoomed to pay a penance.

Ten: Burn meninges-encrusted Levi’s in the woodstove. Beg Catherine to go on the lam with you. If police pull into the driveway, cancel those plans. Don the shackles. Rationalize that Ronald Majthenyi put a spell on you. Tell the tired-looking police officer, “I’m not such a bad guy. ” Take one last look at Catherine. In this magic moment she’ll appear prettier than ever, sadder than ever, looking like, ‘What have you done?’ i.e. ‘It was just a silly fight we could have been back to the Scrabble board and blue energy in no time, ’ i.e. ‘Never again will you dance with me, ’ i.e. ‘You were my favourite person too and now you’re gone forever until the end of time. ’ If it is a soft summer’s night, breathe it in, confined as you’ll heretofore be within the grey walls of the penitentiary.