Death by Increments?

A chip here, a chip there

Source: Wikimedia Commons

I went grocery shopping today because I’m a masochist who regularly enjoys being slapped upside the head by “real life.” The real part being that I spent another seventy-five bucks and barely have the fixings for one decent dinner.

That’s what buying luxury goods like toilet paper, laundry detergent, and coffee creamer will get you. A one-way trip to the poor house.

Pissed off by the constantly rising prices at my. local market, I decided not to check myself. Fuck it. I work hard enough.

I had just plopped a large, twelve-pack of water onto the belt when I heard, “Do you need any help?”

It was the guy checking out ahead of me. Unassuming. Forty-something. Affable-looking.

My reply: “No thanks. I’m pretty strong.”

Then, he hit me with it: “But, you’re bones!”

I wish I’d been a fly on the wall to see the expression on my face because I was gobsmacked for a comeback. And then he was gone.

Bones.

Now, I’m. pretty slender, yes. But I hadn’t realized I’d migrated into skeletal territory. That said, I haven’t felt like eating much these days. Or, doing much of anything else.

Perhaps the dude was right. Day by day, I feel an unrelenting chipping away at an existence that, if not deliriously happy, was relatively sane and safe. As if I’m disappearing.

I think about death quite a bit. And, about my parents, and why they opted to be buried instead of burned. My sister and I have talked about this to no end. Our father, who was Jewish but non-practicing, wanted to be buried in Shalom Memorial Park, a predominantly Jewish cemetery in a Chicago suburb. And our mom acquiesced to his wish. I don’t think she gave a shit, frankly. Unsentimental to her core, I’m guessing her feeling was, “Dead is dead.”

As it turned out, they were both buried on the “other side of the Jews,” because my mother was Gentile, also non-practicing. I suppose that was close enough for Dad.

When I’m not cheering myself up with thoughts about my dead parents, most days I’m an automaton, whirling through my chores and various tasks on autopilot. Working out is a must, bones be damned,

The same repetitive tasks are done at the same time, as if somehow, the repetition will provide a modicum of comfort, of peace, or a reasonable facsimile.

I’ve had to wade through a tsunami of drama over the last several months, but I’m handling it. That handling has left me depleted and both mentally and physically spent. But a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do, and I’m doing it.

It’s mid-July, and the cicadas are buzzing up a storm because it’s mating season, and male cicadas use a special organ called a tymbal that vibrates rapidly, creating their signature buzz. To female cicadas, that sound says “come and get it,” loud and clear. And, because the lifespan of a cicada is short, albeit sweet, you can bet they’re gonna get some.

I learned that the signature cicada buzz is also called a “croak,” which is sadly appropriate given their brief stint on this planet. No matter the name, I love their music, although as I’ve aged, their reappearance each summer signifies the impending ending of a season that, when I was a kid, felt like it lasted forever.

A few months ago, our deck was rebuilt, and it’s lovely. Yet, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve languished in the sun on my ancient lounge chair. Instead, I stare out the glass doors leading to the deck and think, “I should go out there.”

No. “Too hot.” “Too buggy.” There’s always a “too something” to keep me from emerging from the cocoon I’ve crawled into, only to sit back on my haunches and watch the world passing me by. I suppose this is what chronic depression feels like.

This Summer of Trump has kicked my ass. The last few summers were nothing to write home about, but this one? I’ll sum it up like so: I’ve never felt the spectre of death like I do now.

Dramatic? Perhaps. But it’s difficult to articulate the feeling of being sucked dry, of mentally scrambling to find something…anything…to look forward to.

Each day, the “news” is more surreal, as the inaction and complete inability of our elected officials to purge the moral decay of a felon’s administration tells us in no uncertain terms that we are alone.

Each day, I wake up hoping to hear that Trump’s ticket was punched in the night. A stroke. Heart attack. A tumble down the steps of Air Force One.

Each day, I want to run, but where?

To a deserted beach. Where all I have to think about is the sand creeping up my ass crack.

It was time for a bit of levity, folks.

You know what I’m talking about. I’ll bet that, like me, you writers attempt to stem the rising panic by diving into your projects. Ahh, yes. I have many. On a list. And, as soon as I get to them, no doubt I’ll feel better.

As a longtime, big-time dreamer, I never doubted that I would achieve those dreams. That my horizon would be as bright and shiny as a new penny. But I miscalculated the sheer volume of individuals who will try to fuck people like me—and you—because they erroneously assume that dreaming makes us weak. Au contraire, my friends.

That said, even while I sit at my iMac and struggle to keep you engaged, fire off another query to a literary manager, or muddle through the first few lines of my first book, a question looms: What the fuck’s the point?

What’s the alternative? I guess that’s the point. Many of you inspire me. That, too, is the point. “If they can do it, I can do it.”

We must cling to that, no?

Recently, on a few of the independent podcasts running on YouTube, I’ve heard about those MAGats who are now boo-hooing in their Kool-Aid because their Fuhrer has let them down with the whole “Epstein thing.” And the “groceries thing.” And the “detaining innocent people in a hell-hole thing.”

They say they didn’t vote for this, and now, they’re asking for grace.

Fuck ‘em. That’s my thing. They’ll get no grace from me.

No. I’m short on grace for dimwitted racist dupes who voted for a narcissistic monster, a pedophile who, on The Howard Stern Show shared the stunning personal revelation that “Damaged women are great in bed.” I’m paraphrasing but that’s the gist of it.

How do we get through this? This stifling sense that tomorrow will be worse than today?

I suppose there’s the time-tested fallback of “It could always be worse,” Sure! We could be one of those poor souls in Alligator Alcatraz. Our beds covered with mosquitos the size of grapefruits, our food infested with maggots and our only source of hydration a water spout on top of the three toilets allotted for thirty-plus men.

“Detaining” human beings in this manner is nothing more than a descent into savagery, much like in William Golding’s Lord of the Flies.

How long do you imagine Donald Trump would last in our own version of Aushwitz? Or Kristi Noem and mush-mouthed thug, Tom Harmon, who said he’s never visited there?

Yes. A chip here, a chip there. Until there’s nothing left. And no one ever said that life can’t kick us in the ass, but I can’t remember another time, in my lifetime, when that process was supercharged by an administration hell bent on killing us.

What is there to do but to keep pushing back? Put one foot in front of the other and keep on truckin,’ people.

Yes, there are always protests. Been there, done that, and they’re impressive. People all over the US flooding our streets with big signs and bullhorns so they can make a big noise that falls upon one, collective deaf ear.

Because trying to effect change among people who are morally bankrupt is the very essence of shouting into the abyss.

But, I’m not ready to go, so, I’ll keep trying, I’ll step up my game. Write more. Get out more. Dream (even) more.

And, when the guns come out, maybe we’ll all feel better. I know. Easy for me to say.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2025. All Rights Reserved.