A S H TO N C A P O Z Z I
A D a u g h t e r’s C r i t i q u e
I
wanted to write about spring in Banff. Or ringing in a Colorado New Year with a nudist couple. I sat for hours trying to describe being gay in a conservative family, or the borderline obsessive love I have for my dog. I wanted to write about life, or love, or some other shit that might make someone’s day a little better. I wanted to write about so many things. But I can’t. Each time the subject changed, I went outside to smoke a cigarette. Nicotine raises the risk for cancer, makes it hard to walk up a flight of stairs, and keeps me company while I piece together the shit show that is my thought process. I’ve managed to avoid this topic for 4 years. Through all the short stories, admission essays, therapy sessions, deep drunk conversations, journal entries, and fake prayers I have discussed all but this. And that shit worked out just fine for me. I sit here with two left in what was a new pack of Marlboro Reds, and I’ll write now. I’ll write to you. Fucking bitch. // Mom, The timing was less than ideal. December 16, two days before your birthday. Not to mention...Christmas. Asshole. Certainly puts a damper on the holiday cheer. There is no prime time to commit suicide, but I’d say mid August would’ve been preferable. Sunny and dry, perfect for outdoor memorial services. No major holidays or special events. You could’ve opened a window and enjoyed the breeze in the process. Listened to birds singing and cars passing by. Mid December supplied a day that was cold, and overcast. You sat in a dark room, alone, with nothing but your thoughts for comfort. I would have assumed you wouldn’t have went with the pistol. You and I both know how fond you were of your looks, and generally bullet holes are many things save flattering. A simple search on Wikihow would have opened your eyes to a slew of other options at your disposal. A suicidal ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’. Of course not everyone can be as memorable as Will
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