Sometimes, life is like being accidentally f*cked in the butthole. So I’ve been told.
One second, you’re just doing your thing, and the next, you’re passed out on the kitchen floor, pissed at the reality that your anus will be bleeding for the next week.
Sometimes, you’re driving along a 70 mph highway and you hit a bump in the road. Your car hits the concrete wall and tips, and the front tire splits into a thousand pieces.
And then, when it is all over, you have to hysterically let out the rainstorm that has been sitting inside you, each teardrop filled with the fear that you could have had your last moment,
filled with the graditute that you didn’t,
filled with grateful acknowledgement that you were surrounded by strangers and friends and family who sacrificed their time and energy to make sure you were ok.
You don’t really remember what happened. Maybe it was your fault, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you were just being a human being.
The only remnant left from the accident was the soy sauce splattered across your windshield from the sushi that sat on the passenger seat, the rice on the carpet, the soaked fabric from the ice that came flying out of the cooler, the 30 pieces of rubber that used to make up one single tire.
There’s something about knowing that you could be in a hospital bed right now, tied up with tubes, something about knowing that your life could have ended that makes you appreciate the things that you normally run from, that makes you braver, that makes you never want to eat sushi ever the f*ck again.
It makes you want to call that one person and tell them that you love them, which is funny, cause you don’t even really know them yet.