My Thousand Deaths

...life denies me that hope, and even that adverb. (JLB 32)

It happened. Today. My thousandth death. And only twenty-seven years old. As I leapt through the guardrail, temporarily in my auto, on a five-hundred foot overpass. Actually, my death came when my vehicle smashed into the Caltrans’ tractor at the bottom (approximately at 487 feet), as my body flew through the windshield and impaled my body over the scoop, quickly crushed by the also flying vehicle. Vince, the police officer who arrived to the scene first, believed my unidentifiable corpse, a freshly poured daiquiri. He proceeded to make his own blended drink as his In-N-Out lunch made a comeback tour.

I am not a fan of senseless violence, for that matter, senseless gore. As far as senses go, I touched, saw, heard and tasted (strawberry, my favorite flavor of daiquiri), everything but smell in that description— I omitted the burning oil smell, it didn’t flow, lyrical that is.

As an astute reader, as I know you are, my thousandth death must, you presume, leads to a first death, in fact nine-hundred and ninety-nine (you are also a fantastic mathematician, I see). I will not fail you. Without another pause or witty phrase, welcome to my life and my nine-hundred and ninety-nine deaths: