Self-Evident Loss
In the year 2021, I will chase my own ambulance. This will be the five year anniversary of the death of my last five year anniversary. Life can be measured by death. It is usually measured in years, though. However, it can also be measured in metrics. I was born with a blue collar, but I'll die six meters under.
In any case, the heart isn't the source of feelings. That's romantic comedy. It's the nervous system, of course.
Sometimes I get heart palpitations. These are often the result of anxiety. Or neuroses. Or drugs. The heart is the source of dread. That's black comedy.
The last time I had a heart attack was when I had a renaissance peak in Vegas. No, wait—it was when I almost missed a JetBlue red-eye. No, wait—that was early in the morning. No, wait—it was that time I dunked my eyes in pumpkin-spiced pavement in Brooklyn.
Shit, no...the last time I thought I was going to die was on November 9th, 2015. By the 10th, everything was zen. And by the 11th, my clarity had gone viral.
Well, okay...so I saw a fortune teller on Christmas Eve. And so, umm, I met an exorcist on New Year's Eve. And I mean, I guess I am resolved to absolve, and I am absolutely resolute.
Now, as you know, I am also a white man on the back page of a yellow book. I am as free as a Turk, and that's something. Point is: Relativity cannot be proven in the court of loss. I forget the point when...
