A sickly, solitary seventy-years old grandmother in the rural areas spent her entire savings on a gallon-or-something of kerosene, took leisure in scooping it cup-by-cup into her bed and set it on fire, with her in it.
The old woman's story never got to Twitter's TrendingTopics. It never turned into an uproar, or a revolution or ululation. It was mentioned in passing, on the radio, a five-second fame, at best; the length of an announcer's spoken breath.
Suicide is an option for the hungry. (Yes, there are different kinds of hungry, but nobody argues with the basics, where fame and fatwas and fairies are byproducts of energetic kinds of boredom.) Where hungry is common, we only shrug and sigh in response. Where hungry is common, comedy and tragedy lose strength and meaning.
Say your life is ordinary, underrated and uninspiring. And you know it's okay, and you're deeply glad about it. Because you might have access to love, and you might have all your meals (as well as your loved-ones') secured for the week, and you might only need to time to forget. Or remember differently.
Perhaps, you're the only one with the power to give your life's meaning, whether awesome or bitter or forgettable. Make good of that, you goddam ingrate.
