After that, my mom would keyboard into the system for our house in Cape Town. With the Control and F keys, she’d light a fire in the gas fireplace, and we’d listen to the hush of the Italian snow falling, the crackle of the flames via the audio monitors of the security system. Pressing the Control and D keys, she’d dim the lights by remote control and we’d both sit, on a train or in a rented town car or aboard a leased jet, watching the pretty winter view through the windows of that empty house displayed on her computer screen. “Look,” she’d say, turning the screen sideways for me to see, “it’s snowing.” Glowing softly on the computer would be the interior of our Milan house, the sitting room, with snow falling outside the big windows, and by long distance, holding down her Control, Alt and W keys, my mom would draw open the sitting room drapes all the way. The closest way I can describe death is to compare it to when my mom boots up her notebook computer and hacks into the surveillance system of our house in Mazatlan or Banff. Actually, watching television and surfing the Internet are really excellent practice for being dead.
If you can watch much television, then being dead will be a cinch. Trust me, the being-dead part is much easier than the dying part. How to best convey the exact sensation of being dead… To start with, please let me introduce myself. But, trust me, I’m fat for a really good reason.
I wish I could lie and tell you I’m bone-thin with blond hair and big ta-tas. If you can go to Hell for having low self-esteem, that’s why I’m here. Maybe I’m in Hell because I’m fat-a Real Porker. I’m just now arrived here, in Hell, but it’s not my fault except for maybe dying from an overdose of marijuana.
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