If it weren’t for the fact that the voice I sometimes hear in my head is mine, I would think I am as mad as a hatter. I have always believed (and I don’t know if I am right) that schizophrenics hear voices that tell them horrible things, other people’s voices, not theirs. That’s not my case. It is me, myself, who can’t stop speechifying within me. I laugh at James Joyce-ian interior monologues! My stream of consciousness is a real pain in the ass. Nothing can shut me up! I suppose that is the reason why I barely like to talk. This outer mutism is good at counteracting my head’s garrulousness , constantly harassing me. 
My chatty head just talks nonsense. I have posted some of this crap on my website. So, I claim the honor and glory of some posts of which I am not the author. In justice, my head must have all the glory. But also in justice, just because it pesters me so much, I have turned it into my ghostwriter. A symbiotic relationship that is driving me crazy. I am fed up with myself, who I can barely stand. I am prisoner of my own self, a reluctant hostage in the hands of the enemy: I versus myself.
Sometimes I fantasize about decapitating myself, but it scares me a lot and I don’t like blood. I prefer beautiful, placid, healthy deaths, pleasing to the eye. Young good-looking corpses, lustrous and wearing makeup applied by a professional makeup artist. Tanato-aesthetics beautifies us afterwards: the transition to the Other World deserves special attention and care. I want to be fit to be seen on this highly significant occasion. 
Headless ghosts don’t possess any glamour. Besides, if I cut my head off, the makeup artist for the deceased will have to put it in its place again. And I don’t trust my family. They will surely economize expenses to inherit all my money, so they themselves will glue my head to my body with the tube of Loctite Super Glue gel I keep in the fridge. This is no bullshit: Super Glue is often used in minor surgery to glue human tissue together without the need for stitches. I don’t want to end up like this, in such a tasteless way. I want Ofelia’s death, my body covered with flowers and rocked by the water of a brook running into the sea. 