Faking Your Death for the Summer By Rob Kinnaird You’re going home for the summer. Sorry about that. Three to four months of ignoring locals on tinder, reminiscing on the bad old days with friends you’re not really friends with anymore, and worst of all, hiding you crippling Adderall dependency from your parents. But still, you’re going home… Unless you’re dead. Of course, there’s perks to going home. You know your parents love you, but god, love is so annoying sometimes. Yes, the eggs benedicts your mom makes for you every morning are absolutely killer, but she wakes you up at an ungodly hour to eat it. Who still wakes up at 11 am! In this economy! Its inhumane. I think they’ll survive a few months thinking their oldest kid “died” in a “fire” to get away from all that. Mom might take it a little hard when her “wittle squiggums” has perished in an inferno the likes of which Long Island has never witnessed, so make sure she’s prepared. Spend a few months berating her in the comments section of her selfies on Facebook and ignoring her texts. Skype calls too. She’ll be grateful her asshole progeny is a pile of ash under the rubble of a poorly maintained rental house by the time you’re done with her. Maybe she can even sue since technically your basement bedroom isn’t legally a “bedroom,” but more a boiler room with a mattress on the floor. Honestly, maybe just stay
6
dead. At least “the afterlife” doesn’t have a landlord that STILL hasn’t fixed the GOD DAMN leak in your ceiling and a meth lab in the bathroom. By the way, since this is technically considered a mild case of either first or second degree arson, you should really think about that plan. Use the fact that you sleep in a boiler room to your advantage. A loose sheet gets a little to close to a pilot light and boom, arguably not your fault. A decent enough lawyer should be able to get those charges dropped like your third semester GPA. The fact that your landlord uses the closet down the hall for illegal fireworks/lit candle storage should also help the case. Celebrate your independence from life as the bombs go off. Okay back on track. Dad’s always been the stoic type, but you swear you heard a snuffle when he was watching the miscarriage scene in Marley and Me. Eyes completely dry when the dog died though. That fucker hates dogs. He didn’t get you that beagle for your 8th birthday because “you weren’t ready for the responsibility” or some other logical bullshit. You know what! Maybe he deserves a dead kid! Still, we gotta hope your dad won’t spiral into alcoholism after your “funeral.” You’ll only be gone for a few months. In the meantime, just move into the storage unit where you’re keeping the couch, mini fridge, and CRT television (all found on the side
of the road). Lay low there and keep some cold ones chilling in the fridge in case the night shift guard starts to suspect your weed smoke is from a meth lab. He may feel compelled to investigate, but rumor has it if you slide him a 20 and a six-pack he’ll let just about anything go on in there. Oh wait, another sidebar, but make sure you have a plan with what happens to your stuff while you’re gone. Write up a will saying no one gets anything until 6 months after your death so your little brother Garret won’t get all your rare VHSs or Legend of Zelda memorabilia. You’ll be back in time to snag those rare collectibles right out from under his grubby 4Chan twiddling fingers. That’s all Garret really cares about though so don’t worry about him. He’ll probably just tell his discord friends about it to a stream of “press f to pay respects.” Your sister, Stacy, won’t care either. You know she’s just gonna post a pic of you for those insta likes. No one farms sympathy like your sister. She somehow turned your great uncle’s death into 700 likes and 47 new followers. Insanity. If you ever decide to resurface from your early grave too, she’ll probably find a way to get it going viral and then you’ll be pulling that sweet Ellen interview money you’ve always dreamed of. Its kind of a win win if I’m being honest.