I failed to corpsify myself last Thursday. The Super Sibling Squad is smarter than me. They put together the clues, figured out which social network service I was using to schedule updates, and grabbed the addy of the hotel from what was supposed to be my final update.
The Cheap Hotel
On the Local Name Road
Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favo(u)rite.
(My updates have an international audience.)
I also left a note in the room: “I was on Earth all along!”, blowing all my best material on my presumed death.
I was going to die on apple vodka and store brand benadryl, neither of which I will *ever* touch again. If I had been serious I would have waited out the credit check and gotten a tank of nitrogen, but I get lazy when I’m suicidal. But as the title says, I failed, praise Elvis, Bettie, and all the saints.
Dead is cold, dark, and lonely. I was never happier than when I heard a voice telling my mother that I was breathing on my own and the tube was coming out. When the light and air came back my easy-to-love mother was there. I apologized to her and cried a lot.
There’ll be a real bill to play, but until then my family is paying an emotional price for my idiocy, poor health, stress induced problems, tears, heart-break, all on my head. I’ve even managed to piss off the entire interfacebooknet. Sorry not-imaginary peeps.
Listen to Uncle Ray, kids, find someone to talk to. Unless you’re actually in hospice there’s a way home. You may feel like a giant wuss for, y’know, having ‘feelings’ and shit, but you’ll be a *live* wuss and chicks dig that ‘feelings’ shit.
And death is a cold, dark, lonely, place, and there is no way, *no way* home.