With the phone pressed to my ear, I ask my friend—the one I haven't talked to more than twice in the last two years, and each of those times only by instant messenger and only on his birthday, "You ever wonder why, when I was a teen, I said I wanted to live forever?"

After a quiet, introspective moment, he replied, "Yeah."

"Because if I died, I'd have less than sixteen people come to my funeral."

I take a drag of my cigarette. I exhale. The smoke curls around my face, sneaking back into my nose and down my throat. I try not to choke. I haven't had one of these in fifteen years.

Damn, I missed it.

"That number's probably less now," I mutter. "Some of the fam's too old to make the trip down here."

"Jesus."

Jesus is right.

I flick the ashes of my butt to the ground.

Goes to show how fast your life can go downhill when you're a hermit. No one around to mourn me. Not like there's much of a reason to. I've done shit with my life. Touched no one. Made no difference. My thoughts drift to the kitchen knife I held in my hand earlier that morning. All it would take were a few quick slices.

What would it be like to reunite myself with that hobby?

My lip curls in a rueful smile. The blade marks wouldn't help with showing my ugly inside to the world. I'm already an ugly S.O.B. on the outside. Always have been.

I shrug, shaking off my cutter thoughts.

"Why are you telling me this?" my old friend asks; his tone is laced with concern. He doesn't have to worry, though. The same reason why I didn't kill myself at eight is the same reason why I don't at thirty-eight.

Abso-fucking-lutely no one would give a shit if I went into the eternal night. Well, maybe my kids would care... and my spouse. But that's pretty much it.

I take a deep breath. "'Cause you can't do Goddamn thing about it," I reply. It's not like he would fly out to see me. No one would. Like I said before, that's mostly the problem. Also, I don't want to scare the people closest to me. I don't plan on going anywhere no matter how dark my thoughts are on the subject.

"Jesus."

I snort. "You said that already."

"Yeah, well..." he stammers. "It fits."

I nod. I know exactly how he feels. What do you do with that kind of info?

Nothing.

A big fat nothing.

His voice is quiet when he speaks again, and I have to push the receiver tighter to my ear to hear him. "You okay? I mean really?"

I shrug. "Sure. I why wouldn't I be?" I've felt this way for thirty plus years. Another one or two won't make a lick of difference in the grand scheme of things.

"Because you just told me you want to die."

"Nah, not true," I reply with a snort and shake my head. "I told you no one would give a shit if I did. That's not the same thing."

"It isn't?"

"Nope," I bark another laugh into the phone and take another strong pull on my cig. "I'll keep going. Don't want my kids to see the empty church. I mean... Fuck," I say and pause, realizing I haven't gone to church in years. The fam'll have to find something non-denominational if they want a funeral.

Fuck me, I suck.

"You've given this a lot of thought," he says. I smile. His voice has lightened a bit. Probably relieved I'm not begging him to come rescue my sorry ass.

I take several deep breaths. My friend's silent on the other end.

After what feels like an eternity, I say, "Sure."

That's why I plan to live forever.