Every Breath I Take

Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. Anything you may have heard regarding an accident is closer to the truth.

The truth is, I fell out of an outhouse. And I have one word for you: bruised ribs. I'm not talking barbecue, bubba, that's braised ribs. I'm talking a pain worse than childbirth. Well, not really, but I wanted to get your attention.

(You there? Haven't seen you in awhile.)

I had bruised ribs once before in my long long life (braised, too, back when I still thought meat grew from a seed, like lettuce), after I developed a bad case of bronchitis in Junior College. That's what we called it in the Olden Days. I coughed so long and so hard I blew out a rib and had to resort to Class A narcotics. Probably that's when the ol' addiction gene really kicked in. Yo, Doc, yank out my ribs, every last one, just gimme some more of them pills.

Prior to that my drug of choice had been thumb-sucking. I sucked until I was fourteen, when I acquired a boyfriend, who sufficed until I discovered controlled substances.

No doubt my thumb-sucking commenced in the womb. But the first recorded evidence of my sucking occurred on my second birthday, when I was found crouched beneath my parents' bed, thumb cocked. My parents snapped a photo to commemorate the event. I'd gone to the mattresses to lay low after having gouged an opportunistic fistful from the center of my birthday cake as it sat waiting for the party to begin.

Which has been my rallying cry ever since: LET THE PARTY BEGIN!!

In my book, no occasion is too lowly to warrant a celebration. Found the car keys? Crack a couple cold ones. Woke up? Break out the champagne. Explains how I happened to fall out of an outhouse. After all, the moon was full, no pun intended. In my book a full moon is tantamount to the Sesquicentennial. I started partying at 97% illumination and didn't let up until my blood alcohol had reached a similar percentage.

(Still with me?)

The outhouse in question is two stories high. Which sort of describes me that night. It isn't actually used as an outhouse any more. Which sort of allows me to save face. But I got the shit kicked out of me anyway, face or no face.

The fact that this blog was ghost-written over the summer by my identical cousin from Jersey might also have contributed to those pesky death rumors. It seemed like a good idea at the time, my having developed a bad case of writer's block, which could only be treated with Class A narcotics. I mean, we laugh alike, we walk alike, at times we even talk alike. But my cousin's linguistic style is less, shall we say, rampant than mine, no two writers being exactly alike. I mean, if we were, you could lose your mind.

Speaking of which, I'm rapidly losing what little I have left dealing with this pain. Now I know what Adam must've felt like, walking around naked in Paradise, minus a rib, begging God to create Ativan. You could say it only hurts when I breathe. (You could say it, go ahead.) Even though, being of Buddhist leanings, I only breathe once an hour, still, it's a painful breath. An excruciatingly painful breath. Sesquicentennially painful. Child-birthingly painful.

I mean, I accidentally laughed once last week and suddenly found myself moving down a long tunnel toward a bright light, the faces of dead relatives taking shape around me in the mist. Let me tell you, that did it. The writing was on the (outhouse) wall. And it's been a long long time coming. Right then, right there, I made a vow: No more laughing. I'd finally had it, the last laugh.

At least until my ribs heal. Meanwhile, I think we should start calling it the in-and-outhouse. But that's just me.