Mother died yesterday, to give you a sense of my dogshit week.

That wasn't even the worst thing. Did you know that they are testing hydrogen blimps again? They who? I don't know. Do I look like a blimpologist? Well they are, and a test blimp floated right over my house and exploded. Hydrogen is the most volatile element. But they (the blimpologists) believed they had designed a 100% fireproof sheath. How wrong they were. And how unlucky am I? I thought I'd found a real deal, a super good price for a house I can afford on my bananaologist's salary, but then the real estate agent said the house was directly under the hydrogen blimp test site. How could I know what would happen?

I was at the funeral home to make arrangements for Mother and I got back and goddamn if my house wasn't a smoking crater.

So I went to the bar. I'd never been to this bar before and I started chatting with the bartender. She asked if I was new to the area and I said yes I am and I also won't be staying long. She asked if I'd heard about the explosion at the banana factory. The discarded peels had fermented in the vats and the built up C0₂ and pressure made a giant fireball. (Peels and sheaths—can't trust them. Things that should stay apart always meet.) I said, well doesn't that just figure, and those were my last words on the mortal plane because the bar blew up, due to arson this time, and I landed on a cloud right beside Mother, who offered me her harp but I knew not to take it because she'd harp on her sacrifice for all eternity.

Mother looked good. She looked alive. I didn't mention the banana factory explosion because she'd never wanted me to be a bananaologist, but rather a canine periodontist. She said my hair needed combing, and, when I shrugged as if to say, why does this matter now, she grabbed my neck and thrust her fingers through my hair. It hurt at first, but then it felt good. The sun at this new angle was bright as the peel of a Gros Michel.

.