Stephen Hawking isn't dead. Jackie Chan isn't dead. I'm not dead - to the point of it sticking.
I was reading the rumors of Hawking's death, and posted the snarky fb status, "You're nobody until false rumors of your death have circulated," then I realized, waitaminit, that happened to me.
I don't talk about it much. I'm still dealing with it, 7 years later.
Without revealing details upon which the statute of limitations would be called into play, I was murdered in 2008. Yes.
I've been shot 6 times, poisoned twice, stabbed, gassed, drugged with strychnine, been rattlesnake bitten, blown up (I swear I don't piss off that many people; I just end up in the weirdest circumstances, hence, Nebraska), 6 brown recluse bites (that came 2nd closest to killing me), 4 major car wrecks and 2 motorcycle wrecks from which no one else recovered, stabbed twice, etc. ad finitum, ad nauseum, and the only thing that really ever came scarily close was my own heart taking a powder last year. Except being murdered.
I was at Gold Dust West in Reno, having midnight supper with friends, and had to use the loo. I excused myself, was on the way to the ladies' room (it's all the flipping way across the casino from the restaurant) when I was urgently hailed by an acquaintance who had a faux-mergency outside. Normally I wouldn't have fallen for it, but I had dinner on my mind. And the bathroom.
His white van was waiting, and he urgently beckoned me over, exclaiming his 9 year old daughter (who was a great kid I knew better than I did him) need help. I stupidly fell for it.
I woke at a place I shouldn't mention, and wished I had never woken. I was tortured (No. Some things are still too painful) for what seemed years but I later learned was only 2 days - ONLY. Yeah, me too - then hotshotted with a gram each of heroin cocaine & meth, and left for dead as a supposed overdose (not well thought out considering obvious other injuries), in the middle of S. Virginia St. I'm told the paramedics argued over whether to transport me to hospital or the morgue. I wasn't actually alive, but I had no identification so no one could be called to ask for a decision about DNR. They put me on machines, keeping me going but with No brainwaves (shut-up) for 3 1/2 days until Reno's finest finally got around to running my prints and DING DING DING we have a name! They located my DNR, turned off the machines, and against anyone's expectations, I lived. Kicked back into play as it were.
8 days later I woke, with 2 name bands, 1 with the name I used then, and 1 that said, "Special Friend of S..... ......" I still have it. No, I won't talk about the afterlife, because I refuse to influence anyone's faith or lack, thereof, except to say, "You're all wrong."
My waitaminit comes from this: After I was out, I read my own obituary. Yeah, creepy factor 10. I saw a total stranger with a copy of 1 of my custom tattoos, with In Memorium Mama Vicky over it. I listened to people I'd never met tell anecdotes about my shennanigans down at the river, as I quietly absorbed healing sunshine. Want to know something about you that you never did? Be dead. It's bizarre. So I moved to Nebraska, for reasons that now seem equally bizarre. I'm out of here before the end of the year, thanks to Powerball.
What was the reason? I won't say. It isn't my secret to tell, not then and not now.
My point, and I do have one, is that... well, hell, I've forgotten my point. Maybe I am just rambling. Death is weird? Nope. It's totally gone.
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