Close Calls: A Totally Emo Post

I was supposed to die in the back of a car, sitting bitch on the Bay Bridge headed towards Oakland at dawn, when the driver coughed out two young lungs of weed smoke and said, Man that acid is really kicking in now.

I was supposed to die on a bus in San Francisco’s Diamond Heights from a bullet wound to the gut because I wouldn’t give up my jacket.

I was supposed to die in an alley by the hands of an angry cop, handcuffed and alone, on my knees with my eyes closed. Praying.

I was supposed to die in a prostitute’s hotel room, surrounded by cigarette butts and condoms, with my pants down to my ankles and passed out on GHB.

I was supposed to die at night in my bedroom with my door closed and no one was supposed to notice until the next afternoon.

I was supposed to die in a Chrysler Infiniti (or maybe it was a Dodge) somewhere off the road in the middle of Coalinga, California surrounded by a concentration of slaughterhouses, a shattered windshield, and the smell of shit.

I was supposed to die falling from a cliff while climbing mountains near the beaches of sunny San Diego.

I was supposed to die at an outdoor rave in 1994, to the drum of techno music high on acid, speed and heroine, when my face crushed against a rock while collapsing from a nitrous hit.

I was supposed to die that night on Broadway, beaten to death by a gang of Samoans, trying to show off for these girls that I swear to this day winked at me while driving by.

I was supposed to die a thousand times, but I didn’t, I don’t know why. Well, maybe I did and I just don’t remember, I guess it really doesn’t matter then, forget I even said it.

I’m only bringing all this up because I felt down today, and sometimes it just makes sense to see that what you have right now is not only all your flaws but also a half empty glass of wine and a laptop and some quiet and there is no reason to make a big deal of it, just enjoy. You’re not dead yet, but there’s always tomorrow.