Looking at patio furniture late at night makes me suicidal.

Tessa sits down on a beige aluminum lawn chair in the dark on the back porch, and surveys her yard. Her creation, partly illuminated in an artificial blue haze by 24 solar powered LED lights winding along the perimeter.

The landscape had completely changed: The garden was dugout and replaced by an in-ground pool + pool shed + patio + patio furniture set recommended by a home and gardening magazine. The tiered flower beds were erased in order for the backyard kitchen to be built + a new BBQ grill for her husband + BBQ utensils. Circles of slate were swapped for a cobblestone path. A new aluminum fence was erected.  And the two 18 year old miniature conifer trees were ripped out of the ground for a pool heater.

It’s perfect.

At least in her mind.

And the interior (knick-knacks, décor, appliances, and husband) would still be up to date for the next five years. And that includes every season.

But its completion left her with nothing to do.

The only genre of literature she was into was home and gardening magazines.

The only tv she watched was home and gardening shows.

Same with the internet.

And her husband took care of the maintenance duties while getting drunk on canned light beer, which leaves virtually no time for maintaining a healthy relationship + her two children have grown up and moved away.

Tessa nuzzles her shoulder blades into the malleable plastic material, which is weather resistant, trying to make herself comfortable.

Boredom.

She opens up a bottle of box wine and slugs it straight from the tap while popping two bars of anti-anxiety medication.

Admiring.

Hating.

Admiring.

Hating.

Tessa looks at the inflatable pool toys (a yellow duck with black and blue eyes, a pink translucent beach ball, and a couple of neon green and yellow rings) skimming across the dark reflective surface of the water. Chaotically. Randomly bumping into each other.

She takes another hit of the wine, shakes her head from one side to the other, and thinks:

“Looking at patio furniture late at night makes me suicidal.”

UMMMM… (This is going to be awkward)

I wouldn’t have texted you but I’m desperate.

I need you to do me a solid, and help me figure out whether or not I am alive. Because people have been making funny faces at me recently, and it’s not because they think I’m unique or interesting—I’m not.

You need to take a sharp object (a razorblade, a broken beer bottle, a scalpel, switchblade, exacto knife, or samurai sword are some suggestions) and split the skin in the back, front, or whatever. And dig in! Elbow deep!  And start rearranging the furniture, and feeling around. Let your fingertips go WILD!

You got to really get in there because I’m not sure what you’re looking for.

Proof. I guess.

Like a plastic wristwatch. Ordered from a cereal box with 10 UPC codes. That’s still ticking.

Or a hotplate glowing red and orange.

Or a limited edition, first generation, copy of a self-help book written by grocery store romance novel writers, printed in 1979, still in mint condition.

Or a used silicone implant of a famous celebrity, still covered in dried out bits of coveted DNA.

Or a pod of unhatched spider eggs.

I don’t really know, but you’ll have to be thorough and have a steel stomach, because it’s going to be messy, and heartbreaking. And I don’t want you puking your guts into me—there’s already enough shit inside of me + the smell of puke makes me nauseous.

You’ll need a sandwich bag to catch my ghost because it will want to move out after you’re done remodeling my insides. 

(I started believing in that paranormal shit after watching a show about it on tv where three dudes go to abandoned buildings and detect ghosts with their arm hair.)

You can do whatever you want with it after you’re done.

Put it between two pieces of bread, make a sandwich, and take it to work for lunch—it’s already in the proper bag, and I’m sure it will taste good.

Perserve it in formaldehyde.

Or just throw it out.

Either way, you’ll be compensated with vicodin and a gram of weed.

And don’t worry about the body; it’s being shipped to Nepal for a sky burial.

Please get back to me.

 And thanks.

 Thanks again.

(Even though you haven’t helped or done anything yet.)