i was halfway into a pint of ben & jerry’s
and halfway through a bowl of blue dream
when my sister called
voice like a weather alert:
lance? are you okay? you sound weird on facebook.
i told her i was fine,
just tired of pretending life was a carnival
when it’s clearly a landfill
with a gift shop.
told her i’d been smoking more
and drinking less
but not because i’m improving—
just because gin is too expensive
and pot now comes with discounts.
she asked how i was really doing
so i gave her the deluxe edition:
“death will come as a relief,”
i said,
“if some doc told me i had three months left,
i’d pop champagne.
no more career plans, no more kale.
just a farewell tour:
delete the inbox,
label the bank accounts,
and make sure the cat finds a better landlord.”
she went quiet.
long enough that i thought maybe
the call had dropped
or maybe she was googling
how to talk your brother off the metaphorical ledge.
ten minutes later,
i was elbows-deep in leftover pad thai
when there came a knock that said police
without even using syllables.
red and blue disco outside.
they brought a medic
and that special tone they save for junkies and old people:
sir, are you planning to harm yourself tonight?
i said,
“not tonight.
but i reserve the right to opt out of future seasons.”
they didn’t laugh.
no one ever gets the lance watson brand of wellness.
so they took me in,
not in handcuffs,
but in that polite hostage way
where you ride in the back
and nobody speaks
except for the one EMT
who kept humming the bee gees
like it was a coping mechanism.
the psych ward had that familiar vibe—
plastic chairs, stale air,
and a vending machine that only took exact change.
i met the shrink at 3 a.m.,
who looked like someone had just canceled his vacation.
he asked if i was a danger to myself.
i said,
“only in the same way you’re a danger to your career.”
he did not smile.
these people never do.
too much liability in mirth.
i told him i wasn’t suicidal,
just observant.
and tired.
and allergic to hope-based group therapy.
he asked me to elaborate.
i said,
“life’s a stew of disappointment.
most of it lukewarm.
and we’re all pretending this isn’t just
a long, slow unboxing of entropy.”
he gave me a pamphlet.
i gave him a shrug.
by sunrise they decided i was “low risk”
and let me go,
with a number to call
if i ever felt like talking to strangers
about the futility of everything.
i went home,
ate the other half of the ben & jerry’s,
and texted my sister:
still alive. thx for the fireworks.
