Practicality

I told a very close friend the bad news. He cried, and with a squeaky little voice that most men would never admit to owning, he said:

"I always knew you'd pick a chicken-shit way to die."

It made me proud. See, I've been involved with some really dangerous stuff. I'm not talking about "Jackass" stupid stuff, but certainly the kind of stuff most people wouldn't do on a bet even if they were high on PCP. Some of it has damn-near killed me, and all of it could have killed me. Obviously it didn't. (Either that, or there are blogs in Hell and you're reading mine.)

And so, for my friend to say what he did was an acknowledgement that I'd survived (and therefore conquered) danger and death. That's an accomplishment as far as I'm concerned.

But it made me think.......... Have I always been ready to accept death? Don't misunderstand. I never chased death per se. The "success" of my adventures could only be measured by eluding death, by watching the black robed spectre walk away pissed-off, time after time.

I now find myself wondering if I'm just being smug.... assuming that I'll be able to keep digging clams in the shallows of the River Styx, ignoring the rules of tradition and 'fraidy-cats', merely assuming that I can win at the game again by sheer will and contempt of the institution of death. Arrogance can be a strong-suit in certain situations and I can be amazingly effective at it.

Hell, maybe I don't even believe in death. I don't know. I've never done it before. I'll keep you posted.