Undead

It’s no secret that I should probably be dead. Evolutionarily, there is no real reason for my existence. In fact, if I had lived just 50 years ago, I probably would already be dead. I am merely alive through the sheer chance of science and modern medicine.

 

And that makes me undead.

I hope we have the technology to reanimate skeletons when I die. I am so in. After science has it’s way with me.

 

I am living a sort of second life. It is the life beyond what I should have lived. In all honesty, I am probably living a fourth or fifth life at this point.

 

Let’s examine the evidence:

 

I’ve had between 5 and 10 minor to major strokes. I’ve had 5 heart surgeries. Any one of those things should have killed me. Those things have killed many other people before me and will kill many more after me.

My first intentional pun!

I’ve fallen down a flight of stairs. On two separate occasions. Both of which could have resulted in a broken neck. I can only attest my surviving those incidents to my yoga and cat-like reflexes.

My reflexes are as good as this kitten’s.

I swallowed at least one, fairly large piece of glass. Which I suspect is still floating around waiting to lodge itself in some crucial organ. Like my lungs.

microscope lens

Excuse me, I just need to go swallow this real quick.

Not to mention all the things in my environment that are trying to kill me. For example, one time I brushed up against a plant at work. It had been recently sprayed with pesticides. I found out the hard way that I am allergic to them.

 

I broke out in hive all across my neck and throat. And then my face. And then my arms and hands. And then my throat started swelling so bad that I couldn’t turn my head. Or pesky other things, like breathe.

 

 

Know what’s sexy? Not hives.

I still don’t know what the pesticide was. Every once in a while, I will re-discover it and break out in hives again. It’s sort of like being a detective adventurer, except I could die.

 

Then there was the time my air conditioner broke in the middle of summer. I came home to a house that was almost 120 degrees. The AC men came out and fixed it, but after they left, I kept noticing a weird smell.

 

I let it go for a few days, but I felt like it was getting stronger, so I called them back. They said it was leaking freon, which they claim didn’t smell like anything. (Then what was I smelling, huh?!) They couldn’t fix it that day, but assured me it was no big deal. It was only harmful to people with heart problems.

 

It wound up taking them over a week to fix even after I told them I did have heart problems.

 

So, I am sick, and clumsy, and unlucky, and allergic to life. And I haven’t even mentioned my emotional problems. And I can’t even reproduce, not that I wanted to.  So why am I even alive, from an evolutionary standpoint? I really don’t know. Hopefully I am funny enough to be using up all the resources I am.

 

What about you guys? Are any of you undead too?

11 Dumb Ways to Die

I make a lot of jokes on here about the ways I am likely to die. I am not in any particular rush to die, but I am also not afraid of it either. I am a little concerned with how I die however. So I thought I would tell you all the top ways I am convinced I am going to die. (J, if you are reading this, you may want to just stop here, it’s all death jokes after this).

 

I hope this doesn’t  turn into some self-fulfilling prophecy where I get famous for some reason and then some crazy fan decides to murder me. But if it happens, it happens.

 

I have long expected to be stabbed to death in a laundromat. I have mentioned it here and here. I had a death dream about it once. Did you guys see that episode of Adventure Time with the cosmic owl in Jake’s death dream? Like that but in a laundromat instead of space. Also, anyone that has spent time in a laundromat can sympathize with that fear.

Adventure Time!

In all honesty, the way I am truly most likely to die is of a stroke. I’ve already had somewhere between 5-10 of them at this point. I’m starting to feel like my continued existence is taunting life. Like I am daring it to give me more health issues. “Is that all you’ve got, universe?!”

Knowing me, yes. Probably.

I definitely have liver failure to look forward to. Between the heart medications, the migraine medication and now the back pain medication, my liver has aged about 80 years. In case the government is reading this, some medical marijuana would go a long way to reducing my risk of liver failure (nudge, nudge). I’d probably already be dead if I drank on top of my prescription drug usage.

But since I am responsible and care about my lung health, I’d get prescription marijuana brownies.

My most recent ex has inspired many friends, co-workers, and courtroom sheriffs to suggest I buy a gun for home self defense. While I can see the appeal of owning a gun, I have literally never touched a real gun. In fact, I have barely touched a fake gun. My parents didn’t allow us to have fake guns growing up. And you’d best believe that I am an insufferable asshole when I get my hands on one. But I am 100% convinced that if I have a gun in my house, someone is going to break in and shoot me with it. If someone wants to kill me, they need to bring their own gun.

I pretty much act like this. With any toy gun. And make shooting noises.

After this post, where I mentioned my proclivity for roadside peddlers I began to realize my bizarre preferences and idiotic curiosity will possibly lead to my death. I’ll pull over to see the history of the sanitary napkin museum (which I know is a real thing and yes I am dying to go), and be murdered by the curator (no offense to the curator, who I am sure is quite lovely). Because I am a moron and will stop to look at anything I find interesting, which is almost everything.

Someday…someday…

Also, while I’m on the subject, I’m going to tell you a few ways I am worried I am going to die that don’t actually make sense:

 

Zombie apocalypse. There is no way I am living through that shit.

Nope!

 

Traveling back in time and dying from a disease that there is a cure for now, but that didn’t have one then. Apparently, it has a name: Chronohypochondia. 

 

Tripping and accidentally falling off a building/down a flight of stairs or escalator/into a woodchipper/through a piece of glass/out a window.

Only I would die. Or herniate a disc. I’m that good.

Monsters. Even though I don’t believe in them.

 

Cutting myself on some craft supply, like a crystal or animal tooth and dying of some as yet undiscovered disease (though it would hopefully be named after me which would be pretty sweet).

 

Choking to death on something alone in my apartment. Actually, if you guys saw the way I eat, that isn’t so far-fetched.
And then, finally, the way I hope to die. In my 90s, peacefully weeding my herb garden. I’ll be wearing a big straw hat and some god awful pants because I will be a bad ass old lady that does not give a fuck. I hope I just lie down to take a rest and never wake up.

 

UPDATE: I just remembered two other ways I want to die. Spontaneous combustion or in the middle of sex. You cant get too mad at either of those amazing choices.

Falling

When I was 10 my family went to see my half brother and sister and their mother. I had seen pictures of us together when I was younger, but I was very suspicious of them. I knew they were related to me, but I had no recollection of them.

Who were these people claiming to be my family?

I would have been miserably bored on this visit, except that I had two new presents to occupy my mind. My mother had bought me my first diary. It was a small child’s diary with a photo of two white horses on the cover.

The beginning of my journaling career

The beginning of my journaling career

I was never one of those girls that liked horses. In fact, I was, and still am afraid of them. And they don’t like me either. I don’t know why my mother picked that cover out for me. But it didn’t matter. It was a real journal with a really shitty lock and key.

It looked like this and I broke it after 2 weeks.

It looked like this and I broke it after 2 weeks.

She had also bought me my first Walkman, which was life changing for me. And it came with a cassette tape. Paul Abdul’s Forever Your Girl. I didn’t particularly like Paula Abdul then or now.

But I listened to that tape until it got warped and creepy sounding. Like a talking doll whose batteries are slowly dying. And even though that was 20 years ago, I still know every word to every song on that fucking album.

They say you never forget your first.

They say you never forget your first.

I’ll never know what prompted my mother to buy me what was to become the two most important items of my youth. I had certainly never mentioned wanting a diary or a Walkman. But even at that age  had a passion for both writing an d music. Maybe she thought it was something that would be a quiet distraction for me. She couldn’t have known how much journaling would affect my life.

I spent the family weekend with my headphones on and my face in my journal. Which was to become my new look for the rest of my youth.

At one point everyone wanted to go on a trip to somewhere. I honestly don’t remember where. It’s possible that I didn’t even hear where everyone was going over “Cold Hearted Snake.”

But I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t be convinced or cajoled into it. And since I was 10, my parents didn’t want to leave me alone in a stranger’s house. So my mother decided to stay behind while everyone else went out.

She was inside working on a crossword puzzle and I was out in the yard writing and singing. I somehow came to the conclusion that I should attempt to climb the palm tree I was leaned against. I don’t know where that idea came from or why it even occurred to me.

So, I began climbing up the spines of the palm tree. I don’t know how they held me to even climb up. But I was young and very, very thin. I’m sure most of you have seen palm trees, but maybe not up close.

It really does make a convenient ladder.

It really does make a convenient ladder.

I am afraid of heights and yet had absolutely no issues climbing higher and higher. It was fun. Like climbing the beanstalk from Jack and the Beanstalk. The spines made a very surprisingly easy to climb ladder.  It was so easy that I lost track of how high I was getting. Little did I know that I was like Icarus, flying too close to the sun.

When I finally stopped and looked down, I was about 40  feet off the ground.  I froze. I was really high up. I had never been up so high in a tree. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think I could get down on my own.

I stayed like that for a few minutes. I didn’t want to call my mother for help. I didn’t want to bother her and I knew she would get mad.

I waited and waited until I finally stopped feeling so afraid and decided to try to climb back down on my own. Climbing down is always harder and more dangerous than climbing up. Unfortunately I waited too long and my muscles were exhausted. My arms and legs were shaking with both fear and muscle strain.

I lost my grip and fell the almost entire way down. I somehow landed without breaking any bones. But I had hurt my arm. It felt raw and scraped up and sort of burning.

When I looked down I saw that I had cut myself from my inside wrist all the way down to my inside elbow. The cuts ran the entire length of my forearm and some were cuts were very, very deep. Which incidentally is also the better way to attempt suicide. I wrapped my shirt around my wrist, but it wasn’t enough to staunch the blood flow.

I snuck into the bathroom and washed my arm, hoping to wash away some of the blood and make it look less severe. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide it from my mother for long. Especially if I couldn’t get it to stop bleeding.

But I couldn’t get it to stop bleeding. It was gushing. And the blood didn’t want to coagulate. I rinsed all the blood out of my shirt and went to face my mother.

My mother tends to faint at the sight of blood. She saw my arm and freaked the hell out. We didn’t have the vehicle and this was before the days of cell phone popularity. We couldn’t even find any hydrogen peroxide.

We wound up using paper towels and finally managed to stop the bleeding. I never did go to the doctor to get my arm looked at. I probably should have received stitches for this wound, but didn’t. And even though it has been 20 years, I still have little scars all up and down my arm from it. Like little reminders of why you should never ever climb a palm tree.

Yellow

I used to work for a residential construction company in Miami. I was 17 and worked as a laborer on an all Hispanic crew. None of them spoke English. But I was not worried.  I had taken my two years of required Spanish in high school. I had it under control.

 

Unfortunately, I had also taken 3 years of French and a year of German. So, all the languages were jumbled up in my mind. Plus, I am the type of person that immediately forgets 87% of the curriculum as soon as I passed the class. And even more so the second I received my diploma.

 

But, it turns out,  I picked Spanish up pretty quickly. I was immersed in it every day. And they were all too eager to teach me how to curse anyway. And really, what else do you need?

 

One day I was carrying a piece of scaffolding. It had been raining heavily. Normal Florida rains are nothing compared to the intense tropical downpours of Miami.

Miami, nine months out of the year.

Miami, nine months out of the year.

This scaffolding is not light. It ranges between 80-100lbs. So there I was, moving pieces of scaffolding to set up a structure.

 

And I slipped and fell in the mud. I fell hard.

 

So hard that the scaffolding flew out of my hands with a force that would have been comical had it not had the potential for so much destruction. Luckily nobody had been standing nearby or they could have been seriously injured. So, the scaffolding went flying and I landed in a very awkward split.

80 lbs of destruction.

80 lbs of destruction.

 

I am not a flexible person. I couldn’t even touch my toes until I began doing yoga a few years ago. I mean, I couldn’t even touch my toes as a child. I would get to my knees and then have to stop.

 

It turns out my jeans weren’t very flexible either. They split up the inseam from my knee all the way up to the seaming at the crotch. You know what seam I’m talking about. That weird little nub that makes you look like you have an erection even when you are a girl.

I stood up and brushed myself off, not that you can really brush mud off. Which, by the way,  I was also covered in.

 

The flap of my pants was hanging down and my underpants were horrifyingly exposed to everyone. To this day I’m glad I was wearing underpants at all. But they were an awful, neon yellow.

 

As fate would have it, so was my necklace that day. It was something I had made myself (I am still quite the jewelry maker these days) and the center bead looked exactly like a lemon drop.

 

I swear I don’t normally match my underwear to my jewelry. Really. But for some reason, on this fateful day, I was.

 

I didn’t have any spare clothes. My ride was away running errands and not returning for several hours. And there was nothing I could use to stitch up my torn pants.

 

At first I tried duct tape, but my pants were soaked from the puddle. Duct tape is amazing, but it won’t stick to soaking wet denim.

 

Then I tried staples. Which was tricky at best. Have you ever tried to staple your jeans, at the crotch, while you were still in them? Risky stuff. And in a way, kind of exhilarating. Or maybe I was just feeling high from my extreme, intense, soul crushing embarrassment.

 

Of course, my co-workers were having a great time. They even offered to help me.

 

One of the contractors that was out at the job site eventually gave me a few safety pins. I swear they must have called each other to come out. I think all our outside contractors were working that day. Even the sexy married guy whose advances I had so righteously rebuffed only a few days earlier.

 

The safety pin helped me contain whatever sense of shame I had left. Almost none by that point.

It was too late for me, though. For the rest of the few months I worked there my co-workers had all nicknamed me ‘amarillo.’