The Scientific Method
For my sixteenth birthday, I buy myself a nine-inch, leather-bound notebook with gold embossed pages.
I wish I’d had this notebook three weeks ago, when I first had the inspiration for my new project. I had earned my permit and was finally sitting in the driver’s seat, which lent me the vantage point necessary to see straight into the highway pile-up. Policemen and firefighters flashed by in bright uniforms, but my eyes were drawn to the mangled, restless corpse on the gurney.
Still, I remember enough of the carnage to do a pretty faithful retelling. Wife and kids screaming, I write, Must have been loved.
The next morning, I begin my experiment in earnest. My stomach is still full of frosting from the previous night’s ice cream cake, which makes for an opportune moment to study gastric aspiration. I take a sheet of plastic tablecloth from our picnic basket and lay it carefully on the porcelain tile in the bathroom. Our health class has only just gone over bulimia, so I know the proper technique for inducing a good vomit. I kneel at the toilet, copying a pose I admire in paintings of Mary Magdalene, and stick my index finger down my throat. As my esophagus constricts, I pat myself on the back for paying attention in health class while the other girls played Snake on their phones.
The fudge and mint chocolate chip quickly reverse their digestive course, mixing with bile and acid to create a new, more nuanced flavor. As I feel the concoction rush towards my mouth, I assume a supine position on the floor.
Yes, I write later in my journal, could definitely choke, but hard to force self to lie down. Suggest Dairy Queen for better experience—vanilla?
My next opportunity comes at our class’ annual field trip to the beach. I spend the bus ride training myself to take bigger and bigger gulps of air. Once we arrive at the shore, it is easy enough to slip away from the pack. I creep stealthily into the water until I am confident I cannot be seen. Just as I practiced on the bus, I take the biggest breath I can, mining my diaphragm for all the space it can spare. Then I dunk my head in the water, carefully counting the seconds it takes to approach hypoxic blackout.
One nineteen, one twenty — I make careful mental notes to add to my journal later — one thirty likely enough for average lung capacity, blackout imminent. Just when I start to see a shimmery mermaid swimming towards me — suggest bring goggles to see hallucinations better — I hear screaming and feel a strong pair of arms rip me away from the water. My body betrays me and gasps desperately for air, an embarrassing facsimile of my carefully rehearsed breath-work.
Swim further out to dissuade nosy do-gooders!!!!
****
Having been caught blue-lipped and red-handed, I am forced to see a psychiatrist. The doctor suffers from a severe black bob and wears wire frame glasses that sit a bit too low on her nose. She look like everything I expect of a shrink and therefore, I think, everything she should know to avoid.
“Do you often think about ending your own life?”, she asks, a carefully practiced worry lining her face.
“Of course not,” I answer. “I really do enjoy living. In fact, I’ve just discovered a new hobby!” I think about explaining my newfound passion, but I sense that she won’t really understand.
“That’s great!”, she replies, beaming at my enthusiasm. “It’s so important for young people to have pursuits that they really care about.”
I smile back.
***
There is only half a slice of my birthday cake left in the freezer by the time my little sister’s funeral comes. Normally, I would be irritated by the loud wailing and theatrics, but I’m just happy that all my hard work paid off. I even surpassed my own expectations — in the end, it only took one hundred and twenty seven seconds.