At night we’ll sleep and sleep and sleep…
I don’t know when the end will come. I could be removing a singed frozen pizza from the oven tonight and BAM, stroke out, face-planted in pepperoni. I could be trying to learn tap-dancing by watching YouTube content, tap too forcefully and fall through my collapsing wood floor, my heart pierced by a jagged shards of oak.
What I’ve learned is that a good life is one that’s full of stories. When I’m sliding into dementia and the nurses take away my car keys, I will have a grand collection of stories. Ones that make you gasp, recoil, smile and applaud. That’s my measure of a life lived deeply.
The time I drove for a half hour blackout drunk, and woke up in a cornfield, miraculously unharmed. The time I spent teaching English in the Czech Republic, and the student I fell in love with. Getting married in Hawaii, and impregnating my ex-wife after a Raincoats concert in Portland Oregon.
It has been said that autistics in middle-age are prematurely aged. I feel like I’m eighty years old. Combined with years of substance use, recovery cycles and mental health issues, and my demise will likely be sooner than the average.
If tonight my lungs, battered from years of relentless vaping, wave the white flag of surrender, I would be ready. I have stacks of stories. If my eyes adjust to tomorrow’s sunrise, I’ll hit my vape and ready myself to add more stories to my collection.
Paper Covers Rock 