Author: Sarah

The Farting Serial Killer

Sarah Leave a comment

Before the funeral,
Mom said,
“Could you write a poem, please?”
My worst and dreary dread—
words to say at the funeral?
I’d rather stay in bed.

How could I describe you, my perfect muse?
Just kidding—SNOOZE!
It’s more fun to frolic; play; and tease.
Like we used to on the driveway,
before the crash,
the fire,
turned you to as—
NO.
NO.
NO!

I’m there again. I need to leave.

A funeral poem, for you:
“Your beauty,
your grace,
your ugly face.”

HA!
Misdirection,
my insurrection;
words I’ll never say.

I guess, some things are good now?
We no longer clash,
BUT YOUR BODY IS ASH,
FROM THE CRAS—
No!
I can’t continue on.
How about I write a song?

“When snowflakes fall, I’ll think of your face,
lighting up with joy.
Never mind—poke, poke, poke!
I miss having you to annoy.”

It’s funeral time—
I’m not ready!
Not ready for the world to see.
Not ready to recite,
I lack the foresight,
to discuss your absence in life.

I’d rather stick to my lyrics;
they’ll stay in my head,
as you’ll stay in our hearts.
Remember how embarrassed you got by farts?

And just like that, I have a story to tell, I do!
Did you hear about the Farting Serial Killer, did you?
He couldn’t get close to his victims,
his name was Stu.

Stu wanted more than anything; the thing he wanted most: to kill.
It would be his lifelong thrill.

I know you don’t think farts are funny, but listen, won’t you?
Stu, his gas, it got in the way.
Then one day….
He achieved his first slay!

What’s that? Sirens outside?
The Po-Po were on Stu right quick.
Stu ran to the bushes,
plopped his butt down,
ready to wait for a while.

That’s when he felt it:
Taco Bell.
Moving;
building in his insides.

Stu had a choice:
to hold it, or let it come forward like a shout?
Stu couldn’t resist—
he pushed it out!

The fart rang out from the bushes,
calling attention to come.
Stu went to prison,
and never again saw the sun.

You died.
NO!
NO!
Too sad.

This is supposed to be my poem for you,
and it’s wrapped up with Stu.
It’s not fit for a funeral;
what words would ever be?
I’d rather distract myself with Stu,
and make up silly poems of you.

Afterward:

I read this poem to Mom.

Mom sighed and said,
“Just recite a psalm.”

The pigeon and the girl

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This past spring, I walked the streets of New York City, admiring the outdoor art.

One piece interested me in particular: Shaved Portions by Chakaia Booker.

Beside the statue, something caught my eye.

A pigeon, possibly dead.

I walked closer to inspect.

Yup, dead.

The pigeon’s eyes were open, staring at me. I imagined the bird thinking: “I’M UPSET, I’M NAKED, AND I’M DEAD.”

I’ve never related to anything more in my entire life.

A young girl stopped beside me. She pointed at the pigeon…

…and gestured a slit throat.

Recounting the events to my husband, I tried to explain why the pigeon and the girl stood out to me.   

Iván Argote’s Dinosaur appeared in New York City four months later.     

Photo by ET Rodriguez

Pigeons make great art.

The 16-foot bird would have been funnier if it was facedown, dead, and looking pissed off though.

How to say goodbye

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My sister Melissa died over a decade ago. She was 23 when she died in a plane crash; I was 21.

After Melissa died, I began writing Adventures with Vrah. One of the first comics I wrote depicts a conversation with a friend.

In the early days after Melissa’s death, I felt a huge amount of jealousy toward people who got to say goodbye to people they love.

I had wanted to hold my sister; protect her body; tell her it was going to be OK, even though that makes no sense. Melissa died thousands of miles away from me. I never saw her body. I couldn’t say goodbye.

Before Melissa died, she adopted a cat named Snibbles. Snibbles lived with Melissa for around three years, then with my parents for the next fifteen.

We put Snibbles down a few months ago.

Snibbles had been near the end for a while. She weighed 3 pounds. She stopped eating, including her favorite snack, whipped cream. Snibbles wouldn’t take her kidney or thyroid medication. She was often agitated and confused.

Between these weak moments, Snibbles would display sparks of determination—sticking her head under running water in the sink (but not drinking). When I opened the freezer, she put her head in. When I loaded the dishwasher, she crawled in, hurrying to the back, willing me to close the door.

I said to my husband, “The cat’s looking for creative ways to kill herself.”

At the end of life, is the ability to scream and cry, to hold someone you love, a gift? Or is it just something that haunts you? With Snibbles, I watched her decline for years, then watched her die. I watched her get grey hair and cataracts. With my sister, it was BOOM—dead.

Weirdly, is it a good thing that I never saw her dying or dead?

In writer and journalist Dina Gachman’s memoir, “So Sorry for Your Loss”, she talks about helpful and unhelpful condolences. When someone old dies, Gachman suggests that the words: “They lived a long life” are unhelpful.

I’ve used those words before. Logically, everything dies. It feels lucky—is lucky—to have a long life. As survivors, we find a way to feel gratitude for time together. We find gratitude for the life of the people and things we love. We endure, perhaps even accept, their absence. But, as a person who loved a cat who enjoyed a long life, I can understand why the condolence may hurt:

I don’t feel grateful for Snibbles’s long life right now. Right now, it feels intolerable to say goodbye. I really miss her. I wish she hadn’t died. Right now, I’d much rather hear a funny story or talk about her fluffiness.

The morning we went in to put Snibbles down, the vet sat us comfortably in a back room. We had time to wait for my husband to come from work. The vet lit a candle and gave us a green blanket to put on our laps. We each took a turn holding Snibbles. When my turn came, she didn’t want to be held. She got up and splayed out on the cold floor. My dad got down on the floor with her.

I kept trying out words to say to Snibbles; my big, sweeping goodbye:

“Thank you for taking care of Melissa.”
“Thank you for taking care of my parents.”
“It’s going to be OK, Pequita.” (One of her many nicknames).

The words sounded dumb coming out of my mouth. How could I possibly summarize what she means to me, right this second? Snibbles used to respond to me by flicking her tail or saying marcow (her version of meow) or nodding her head. This time, nothing. This is it; this is goodbye?

As my dad held Snibbles’s paw, the vet gave the shot.

The Gopher Auction

Sarah 2 Comments

In elementary school, being the center of attention made me uncomfortable. Once, after years of having the same hair, I cut it short.

My classmates often called me shy.

Yes, I was shy… some of the time. But there was more to my personality. Outside of school, in the comfort of home, I held court like a queen.

The trick is to make your mother feel like getting you the cookie is her idea.

I felt comfortable seeking attention from my family. But the idea of getting too much attention from a classmate, friend, or stranger terrified me. Being in the spotlight and showcasing my personality seemed like a fast-track to rejection.

I knew I had a lot to give. I had a lot to say. But I didn’t always know how to give it or say it.

In seventh grade, I switched from elementary to middle school. I felt excited about the change. I wanted to be braver about opening up to people.

With my mom’s advice, I made a new friend named Summer.

Most of my elementary school classmates attended my new school. I worried they’d be confused or wouldn’t want to see a more outgoing side of me.

I reverted to my old ways around them.

Luckily, I had a good thing going with Summer.

Summer and I shared everything—including an obsession with rap and hip-hop music. We passed notes in class, a key to best friendships.

We weren’t stoners. But we did get detention.

I loved passing notes, talking to, and playing with Summer. I loved quoting Afroman with her. It felt insanely awesome to be myself with a friend.

Halfway through the year, our school hosted a carnival.

Summer suggested we work the cotton candy booth. With encouragement, I agreed.

We listened to Afroman the entire day.

Throughout the carnival, a boy kept walking by our booth. He tossed a squeezy ball up and down.

Sitting beside Summer, high on sugar and Afroman, I made a power play.

The boy threw me the ball. He said, “Keep it!” and seemed pleased by our interaction.

The next week at school, I put the ball in my locker. It represented something big to me:

It feels nice to be noticed. It feels nice to ask for what you want.

As the squeezy ball watched over me, another announcement came over the loudspeaker.

A school fundraiser, the Gopher Auction took place every year in the auditorium. In a live auction, students who volunteered to be “gophers” would be paraded on stage and purchased by other students. Being a gopher required you to do the buyer’s bidding the following day.

Later that day, I found a note in my locker.

I agonized over the gopher decision. A person brave enough to be a gopher was exactly who I wanted to be. Being a gopher, I’d solidify to myself and TO THE WORLD: I want to be noticed. I can change. I’m not shy.

I pinky-promised Summer I’d sign up during lunch.

As Summer and I parted ways for our respective classrooms, I felt brave.

I thought, all throughout my next class, how good it would feel to show more of myself to my peers; to be noticed in a way I chose.

But when lunchtime came, I just stared at the sign-up sheet—seeing only names of people braver than me.

I ran out of the cafeteria, acting more like the gopher who hides in the dirt than the gopher who bursts from the hole.

I ate my lunch on the toilet.

Thoroughly let down by my realization—by my crushing inability to evolve—I wrote to Summer. I gave her the note in our next class together.

I watched Summer read my note.

She looked thoughtful, then smiled as she scribbled a reply. She looked up and saw me. I quickly looked away—embarrassed that she caught me watching.

After a moment, I felt Summer tap me on the shoulder. I put my hand out behind my back and she pressed her reply into my palm.

I checked to make sure our teacher wasn’t looking. Then I opened the note.

Summer noticed me. Always.

I never became a gopher. But that year, I flourished in the safety of my friend’s orbit.

Happiness Game

Sarah 8 Comments

I’m not a fun hang.

A friend of mine is much more fun.

I like games!

Then I couldn’t think of anything for the game.

Thinking she had accomplished a good deed, my friend went to get another round.

Meanwhile, I sat there pondering what kind of absolute fucking weirdo can’t think of one good thing in her life.

The game did the opposite of making me feel better.  

Later, wandering like a sad Charlie Brown, I noticed something.

I texted my friend.

That’s it.

That’s The Happiness Game.

Author’s Note:

When my husband Sterling read this comic, he said:

“Wow, depressing. Do you want your readers to kill themselves? Maybe you should explain further.”

I said:

“Lol, I’m just trying to be honest. Sometimes gratitude is a slog. I think this comic is hopeful. Because even if a parking lot isn’t overly exciting, as least it’s something. You can build from something.”

Jeff

Sarah 16 Comments

I got the idea to call my dead sister’s cell phone from the movie P.S. I Love You. In the film, a woman calls her dead husband’s cell phone over and over.

It was the saddest thing I’d ever seen.

When my sister Melissa died, I called her constantly.

I sobbed when she didn’t answer.

I sobbed listening to her voicemail and I obsessed.

I pulled my family into it.

It was a little funny.

During one of my routine calls to Melissa, something weird happened.

Something that barged in on my pity party.

Something that introduced me to Jeff.

I hung up on him.

My beloved calling routine was taken from me by Jeff, aided by the dicks over at Verizon.

As pack leader, it was my job to ensure my younger brother and sister knew how to react.

Fueled by “coping-with-depression-via-alcohol,” I made another call.

I gauged his reaction to a drunk dial.

He seemed game.

Jeff and I connected immediately.

But I had the right number. And it was Jeff’s.

We had a beautiful summer together.

I couldn’t wait to get him on the line for a rip-roaring chat.

Classic Jeff.

I don’t remember much of our conversations.

What I do remember is the excitement when Jeff answered the phone.

If my life was a movie, Jeff getting Melissa’s phone number would have been one of those silver-lining things you hear about when people die. Like Jeff and I were supposed to meet. And Melissa dying was the only way that could happen.

A few months into my new routine with Jeff, I got a text from an unknown number.

My life isn’t exactly like a sad movie.

Author’s Note: This story was originally posted in 2017. I’m including this story in my book (Death, Depression, and Diarrhea). I’m sharing it with you so you can get a sneak peek of the redrawn art!