Project Antichrist

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Three days after I threw out my antidepressants, the world ended in countless eruptions of nuclear flame. I was in my living room, sprawled naked on the couch, and in my head every capital you could think of was getting the mushrooms, and every landmark you ever saw on TV was being cooked and powderized. I couldn’t tell you what started it or how long the world tour lasted, but to top it off I imagined one of the warheads — with a ticker and everything — detonating under my building. I imagined that by being seventy-eight floors directly above it, I would avoid that first flash. And it seemed to me that I would glimpse, as I was lifted with my luxurious Lake Shore Drive condo to the sky, the great Windy City being stripped from the prairie and sucked through my basement up, up into the great mushroom of my ass. For a split second I would become the garbage-incinerating, autonomous vacuum cleaner I’d helped advertise. Only better, because in the end I would be incinerated too, “for truly perfect cleanness.”

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