Seizures and Skag

The proof copy of my book Pancreatic Carburetor arrived yesterday. It looks good, thick. The font is large and easy to read. A perfect gift for the farsighted senior in your life! Pancreatic Carburetor is going to be my last collection for a good long while. I need to replenish my supply of short stories. Right now I couldn’t fill a pamphlet.

     

     Having had seizures, I think I know what it’s like to be dead. It is abrupt nothingness. Seizures slam into you without warning and you’re in a death-like state. It’s lights out. You don’t think or dream or anything. It is stone cold zilch. This is not bad. It’s not scary. There’s no point in worrying about death because you won’t know what hit you.

     

     I once had a seizure and collapsed on the stairs outside my apartment. The guy who lived across from me asked me if I were okay. I came out of my miniature coma, told him I was all right and wobbled into my apartment.

      

     My neighbor then went around telling the other tenants that my collapse was due to heroin (which it was not). I was pissed off that he was spreading untruths about me. I didn’t want the whole fucking building to think I’m a junkie.

       

     And then the neighbor died. He was roughly my age. I saw them break through his door with an ax. He was dead all right. I never even learned his name. I don’t know what killed him. Wouldn’t it be poetic justice if he overdosed on skag?