I no longer have any use for nostalgia. Thinking about the past is inutile. It serves no purpose, unless one enjoys self-inflicted wounds. From now on, whenever I start looking back on past years-good or bad-I’m going to gracefully glide across the room in my one-piece disney princess pajamas (Elsa and Anna, sisters forever) and put some music on. Something hardcore, like The Beach Boys. I’ll get on all fours and crawl like a retired stripper with bells palsy howling at the moon. Once I’ve sniffed out the unconsciously predetermined spot I’ll stop drop and roll onto my weak spine, belly up, pupils dilated, half chubbed stuttering, “Bah bah bah, Bah bahBarAnn, Oh Barbara Annnnn.” After the sweet riveting sounds of the chorus have left my mouth and I’ve reached full mast I will tie a rag around my face covering my nose and mouth, then grab the pitcher of water next to me that I have so carefully planted on the cigarette burned carpet in anticipation for such a crisis. It is at that specific moment, before the bell tolls, before sky-net has its way, before I have to endure anymore of The Emperor’s new clothing, before every piece of literature has been raped and pillaged by Hollywood, before I have another chance to think about anything other than the task at hand, at that moment…I will waterboard myself until I can no longer hear the screams of the dead.