EPTWell for anyone still here, you have no one to blame but yourself. Unfortunately, I'm in a rare mood tonight, so I won't be using my normal shit-posting style of no capitalization and shaky punctuation (who am I kidding, my punctuation is always shaky), instead I'm gonna write this one how I write everything else. And oh boy, is this gonna be FUN! (No it's not).
It all started with my umbilical cord wrapping around my neck and turning my tiny, newborn face purple. Things went downhill from there. I was eight when I stepped on a bee-hive and was stung over one-hundred times. Do you know what it feels like to have bees stinging the inside of your nose and ears and eyelids? Hurts like a bitch; but the funny thing is that once I realized (incorrectly) that I was going to die; it kinda stopped hurting. Well, that's not entirely accurate. It still hurt more than anything else I've ever felt, but it didn't matter. My little eight year old self was too numb from the idea of being an angel with a swollen head (I was such a melodramatic cutie) to really give a shit about the pain.
Long story short, my brother's best friend saved my fucking life, and once again, my chance at a halo and a free pass to the Big House (the real Big House) was stolen from me. Dumbfuck luck if you ask me. Not that I'm not grateful, I surely am, but when you become convinced you're about to check out, being pulled back in for a few more rounds isn't exactly walking in a field of lilies, if you know what I mean. And don't bother telling me that it was all going to dark nothing, because I saw the light and spoke to God. Unfortunately for me, I found out later that God was a rather ugly doctor named Jim and the light was just another fluorescent eco-killer. Last thing I remember was asking my dad for a cheeseburger and then throwing up everywhere before I passed out. Somewhere, someone was laughing their asses off at the futility of it all, but I was a bit busy hovering between life and death to hear them.
You know the band Tool? My favorite band ever. They played in SD (So Cal represent!) in 2007(?) and I almost died there too. I had spent eight hours watching shitty reggae before the Yeah Yeah Yeah's came on and rocked the house. (I'm not a big fan of their music, but goddamn that chick puts on a good show). You can imagine, however, what the Tool fans thought of it. By the time MJK (Maynard James Keenen) came out with the rest of the bunch, the crowd was ready for WW fucking 3 and they got it. We made it through Stinkfist and halfway through the Pot before the entire crowd fell down and suddenly I was being crushed by about six people.
Got hard to breathe, and I remember thinking: "Holy shit, I'm actually going to die while watching Tool play, how cool is that?!"
Then Maynard, that righteous bastard, he stops the song and starts saying the normal hippie shit (such a good guy) and managed to calm our asses down enough for me to survive with a head that felt like the entire 1960's Chicago Bears were playing football in it. That's American Football for all you foreigners out there (In my blog, Koreans are still foreigners). Anyway, I survived that one, and even got to catch the rest of the show. Wasn't until later that I found out I had pissed my pants... (lol, not really, I actually had pissed in an empty bottle just moments before they came on)
I guess what I'm getting at here is that death has always seemed like it's just around the corner, waiting for me. I'm not one of those pseudo-masochistic nerds who thinks death is some kind of special thing, or that it's even all that mysterious. But I've had a kind of fascination with the idea for about as long as I can remember. Not a morbid fascination, well, at least not as morbid as that fascination normally is. To the contrary, death always seemed like a kind of dry thing to me. Real grey. Or gray. Both work fine.
Before we go further, I should put out there. This isn't a suicide blog or nothing like that, so don't worry. I love eating burritos from the taco-shop near my house way too much to ever check myself out early. But the fact is that while I would never do the deed myself, I've always kind of wondered what it would be like to have it done by something (or someone) out of my control. Not on purpose, or anything like that, but just... well, the way shit goes. Everyone dies, but not everyone is me. Actually, as far as I can tell, no one is me but me. So what happens when I die? Do I realize that ugly Jim actually is God? Or maybe God is more of a handsome devil. (lol, I didn't catch that till I wrote it)
Damn this is not what I had planned to write. I was planning on putting forward a treatise on the nature of man and his sins, but then this abomination sprang forth. Blame the drugs, I guess. Or the education system. No matter, I think I can still wrap this up without losing the overall point. Basically, I've come to realize that life isn't about how you end it, or even how you start it. And it's not really how you live it either. It's more of a question than an answer. Who the fuck am I kidding? Those kind of vague statements always pissed me off when I was in High School. If you want to be philosophical, you should at least be poetic. I used to be poetic, back in the day. Now I think I'm more Poe-etic. (Okay that was terrible... moving on...)
Live as well as you can, I guess. No, that's not it. Live better than you can and worry about the price later. Someone will pick up the tab, and if they don't, what the fuck do you care? You had fun, and that's all that matters. Make love to your wife, hug your kids, write a book or something. Just don't sit around wasting time thinking about the details, cause I've found that details have a way of strangling you like a rogue umbilical cord. Palin Cord, I called mine, Goin' Rogue for all us sinners out here. It's like this one guy I don't know said to me once, he said: "Shit happens, man. Just make sure to flush. And light a match while you're at it."
Hoo-boy. That was longer than I expected, and shorter than I wanted. I could probably let this stream of conscious go for hours here, but I'm rambling, so I'll let it end with one more word (or two, or ten, or however the fuck many it takes, it's my blog asshole).
There will be times in your life when you think that the person you're talking to is really stupid, ugly, nasty, mean, and just a pitiful, pathetic person. (alliteration ftw) Just try to take it easy on that son-of-a-bitch, because he's probably me, and he's probably drunk. Well, my dealer is calling, so I've got to go. (Oh and if anyone has any advice for how to quit smoking pot, I'd love some.)
Peace niggras.
-SpaceMan Spiff (is the best Calvin and Hobbes skit ever)
. I always miss out. 
