I turn to a video website –one that I, for anti-establismentarian and spiteful reasons shall not name– to find something distracting, anything to avoid thoughts of taking the three inch leap from my porch to the crooked sidewalk below in mocking jest of both my existence and my suspicious fear of ending it. The one about David Foster Wallace comes to mind. He had the artist’s courage and knew with Nietzschian rarity how to end well–a pulse which most composers cannot time with a metronome, let alone their own two fingers. I think amidst my despair and mundanity: “There must be someone to follow. Maybe this is it. Maybe its Wallace.” All of this as I await a pizza reheating (not from the night before, mind you, but from my overt laziness in picking it up ten minutes late from the shop less than a mile from my shitty little apartment here in east Nashville—out of procrastination that is to say, and disregard for myself—even for my own stomach. It sits in the toaster oven from the last relationship that mimics this self-same contraption’s behavior: nothing, nothing, nothing, fire hot, burnt through, and with an overtly annoying ‘ding,’ like a kitchen timer from the fifties, and with similar sexual ambition, a lingering reminder of inert carbon wrapped around my elements every time I care to eat (or fuck) again; you’ll understand my procrastination, then. Why not follow Wallace? Perhaps I too could own a three-worded name, something with a cadence and timing to it. The reason comes to me: “You have yet to write something worth dying for,” and “You have yet to read Wallace and his ilk. Perhaps they’ll feed your spirit better than this again-cold pizza, and sustain you.”