What kind of skull?

JD Salinger died. NPR’s obituary on yesterday’s “All Things Considered” brought out tears.
Fine, that likely means I’m a phony. Fine. If I must be a phony, let its awful presence exist in public.

What kind of skull do I want to have when I’m dead? Yorick’s honourable goddamn skull. That skull. I want to feel in love with Yorick’s skull. That skull; the object of envy.

My skull, according to R1 wisdom, is a third rate dome stuffed with second rate brains. My skull opens (the jaw is part of a skull, right?) to push out the pedestrian. My skull, destined for the Museum of the Possibly Interesting but Probably Not. The museum across the way from where the Indians, Africans, and jade chips reside. Precocious primary school children with gold stars adjacent their name are rewarded with a day trip to the latter museum; the disappointing, the dull Middle children of Miss Kellen’s third grade go to my museum. Maybe they’ll see my skull.

My goddamn skull.

I didn’t always scorn my skull. The stuff inside my skull, once upon a time, earned honours; my skull travelled the globe, lay on pillows next to desirable men. My stuff inside my skull emulated foreign accents. Nostalgia for a skull not present.

Alas, poor skull; who knows you?

My goddamn skull.