I'm surrounded by tsetse flies, but none of them will give me sleeping disease. This is the problem with tsetse flies these days. It's all about image. It's all me me me. I try to fake it, but it's just not the same. I pretend my arm is too heavy to lift. I slouch, and move very very slowly. I collapse at random moments. All day long I stay in bed. When visitors come, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, as if I'm sleeping. But most of the time, I'm just lying there awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for visitors to come so I can pretend to be asleep.

It's the middle of a perfect summer day and I walk along the English countryside. I stomp my boots on dry dirt roads. I kick up dust, and spores. In the distance are rolling green pastures and gently sloping hills. I pass one farm after another, and whistle to myself, loudly, aimlessly, with what can only be described as a completely juvenile insouciance. The earth curves up to meet my steps. The sky is my favorite shade of lemon yellow and blue. Everything is in its right place. Soon, however, I begin to notice something strange. I slow my steps and look around, and the more I think about it, the more aware I become of just how long it’s been since I’ve seen any sign of life. Anywhere. I look for sheep, pigs, cattle, people, horses. Nothing. Then, as my whistling peters off and then ceases altogether, I notice that there’s no sound, either. I stop and listen for birds, bugs, a distant tractor. Again, nothing. It's a total absence of sound, it's the exact opposite of sound. Above me now, the sky is completely still and empty and white. I listen for the sound of white blood cells. I listen for the sound of dust settling back onto the road. When I hear nothing, I undress, and squat, and begin to chew--vigorously--on my toes.

In Vladivostok, a young man stands there with a telephone number and a stolen vial of smallpox.

In the lining of my heart, bacteria are living and mingling and shitting. They wallow in it like pigs. My friend advises me to drink red wine with my dinner, but I refuse. I am American, I tell her. Only the French, and the Italians maybe, get anything out of red wine. I say this with great conviction, but we both know it's all a big anecdotal lie. Suit yourself, my friend says, and I proceed to stuff my face with hot and spicy pork rinds, and chocolate cream-filled snack cakes, and synthetic onion-flavored onion rings.

This morning I was rushing because I didn't know what time it was. So I called time on my cellular telephone but the recorded message diagnosed me with a brain tumor. At first, I got the impression it was benign. Nothing specific made me think this, really--just the tone and inflection of the operator's voice, a certain sense of well-being in my heart, a generally positive outlook on life. But then, later in the day, it occurred to me that maybe I was reading it all wrong again, misinterpreting her signals and hearing things there that weren't really there. And the more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that she had just been playing games with me the whole time, baiting me with a false sense of security, and interest. So I called back, and this time, sure enough, not only did she diagnose the tumor, she also mentioned something ominous about my homunculus as well, and then hung up. I say ominous now because at the time, that's how it sounded, but the problem is, there are times when everything sounds ominous to me. So I quickly dialed 4-1-1 for more information. The operator asked me what city and I told her I thought I might have a problem with my homunculus. Oh, she said in this quiet voice. Oh, I see. One moment please. Then she transferred me to the appropriate department, but as it turned out, all customer service representatives were currently busy assisting other customers, and I would have to wait for my call to be answered in the order in which it was received. Appreciating the careful attention to grammar, I sat back to wait. Four hundred eighty-three callers were already waiting ahead of me. Meanwhile, I could sense my homunculus, rattling around, ominously. The hold music was a careful arrangement of violins and flugel horns looped over and over. Every once in a while, a recorded announcement would cut in and thank me for my patience and assure me my call was important and then request that I please continue to hold, an operator would be with me momentarily. My approximate wait time was two hundred thirty-seven days, six hours, and forty-three minutes. The problem was, this wait time didn't change, even after several weeks had passed. So eventually, I hung up and speed-dialed 9-1-1, but by then of course, it was too late.

So we spend the evening talking and laughing, and then the next day, I place my fingertips over my brain and squeeze, gently. But it is still not spongy. At least, not any more spongy than before. But then I wonder, if my brain were any spongier, would I be cognizant enough to discern a difference? And at what point could I rely on instinct to kick in? After that, I spend the rest of the day squeezing my brain at regular hourly intervals, until suddenly, at four o’clock, my left index finger penetrates the outer cortex and plunges deep into the occipital lobe. There is a dull, wet squelching noise, and I see images from my own birth. I see a flotilla of battered balalaikas bobbing precariously on the Seine. I see the answer to the universe withheld mischievously, mockingly, in the evasive construction of an imaginary quadratic equation I know I will never be able to solve. This is when I decide to give up fruits and vegetables for good. I move to Texas, and become a cattle rancher. My testicles swell to the size of watermelons. I have big plans for harnessing wind power with them.