Dead People Party VIII (aka This is One for the Good Old Days)

From the Diary of Masta Killa:

Day 648. Woke up outside the San Diego Zoo. Lots of bones and dust, that's it. Could hardly tell the difference. Had to crap so broke a store window to get toilet paper. Took a dump in the parking lot. Was checking empty cars for matches, circled around, and, hell, stepped in it. Not a steaming shit save mine on the third rock from the sun, and I reacquaint myself with it not a minute later. Poetic. Beans again, cold. Migraines persist. Found an unexpired bottle of Advil at a nearby pharmacy. Playboy, too. Kim Kardashian looks hotter in person, trust me. Still, I masturbated. Random graffito on bus window: Iceberg sweaters were mad stupid. Can't say I disagree. At least Wu Wear never featured Snoopy prints. Still no sun. Rained yesterday. Tasted metallic. Going to see the ocean. Fish still alive? I wonder. Haven't seen even a cockroach since it happened. Shaved with a broken bottle shard just for the heck of it. There's a singular experience. Look emaciated. Like Christian Bale in The Machinist. Vitamins don't work. Nothing does. Even when I gorge myself I either can't hold it down or pass it almost immediately after consumption, so I've stopped trying. I'm on my farewell tour, I'm confident. Push up your lighters. Sleeping well, though. Undisturbed. Isn't that ironic? When I was a kid I often fantasized about being the sole inhabitant on Earth. Note to my younger self: not even close. You want to play videogames for 24 hours straight and eat a king's ransom in Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, laddie? Tough. You want to smoke a joint in the Oval Office? Make due with a cigarette (a fucking Lucky Stripe; how's that for injustice?), pirate, because, amazingly, you're more liable to find a nugget of gold in a petrified bear testicle than chronic. (Hell on Earth? Goddam right.) Wanna run naked through your old high school? Surprisingly underwhelming. I would kill for a bag of Munchos. An earthshattering blowjob, moreso, but let's be realistic. Do I have a purpose? I dunno. Perhaps I'm on a quest. Perhaps I'm the final cling-on that is humankind. Whatever; before these boils, tumors, scars and scabs cover me both inside and out, I will accomplish something noteworthy. Even though no one will see it. I'm tempted right now to claim that I hit ten thousand straight free throws, but I cannot in good conscience do so (the actual number was ninety one). Supposing someone is reading this, you might wonder "Isn't being the sole survivor of the apocalypse enough?" Sadly, no, it isn't. Nearly two years ago I went to bed at night and awoke the next day in another world. I didn't plan it, will it, or wish for it. It just happened. I used to think it was pretty neat that I was chosen from on high to repopulate the planet until I realized that, unless I could transmorgrify into an earthworm or a mogwai, I was shit out of luck as far as compatible mates go. Oh well, then. Not long after, the self-admission that randomness was the only explanation for my survival set in. That wasn't a good day (my constipation only compounded my misery). I have always considered myself a unique individual -- second to none, one might say. This stems from the fact that I was conceived no more than a few months after my brother was born, after the IUD my mother had implanted in her arm proved ineffective. I beat an IUD. Not even Jordan can claim that achievement. Still, again, the comfort I take from the experience is fleeting, for I do not remember my existence as a tiny sperm, nor can I claim that even then I possessed a strong survival instinct, although given recent developments that's not entirely implausible. Jesus complex? Maybe. But right now I'm wearing a pair of ragged corduroys, a shirt -- word to the Grinch's heart -- 2 sizes too small, and the eyes I stole from the mailroom supervisor at my last job. Crown of thorns > my shabby attire. Anyway, I'm almost at the bottom of this boulder. If I keep writing it might fall on me. Should I live another week, I'll make it my duty to engrave a follow-up missive on some legible surface between here and Mexico. Meanwhile, here I go again. On my own. Walking down the only road I've ever known. God, I miss you. I wish we could have seen the stars together. They were so bright.