Death On The Brain

If I had to guess, I would say that I have imagined my own death more times than the average person. Not as much as say, Edgar Allan Poe, or other such Goths, but still, a lot, especially for the happy, well adjusted person I like to think I am. Where the preoccupation comes from, I have no idea, but for as long as I can remember, even back to my early childhood, it is not uncommon for me to space out during whatever I am doing and imagine some form of my own unpleasant demise.

Back before car seats were a mandatory expense to parents, my mom would let me curl up like a cat on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Lying there, surprisingly comfortable in the small space, I would imagine head-on collisions that would push the dashboard to the seat leaving me trapped, assuming I survived the initial impact, like a sardine in a can, until I finally suffocated.

We got a trampoline in my youth and I imagined breaking my neck a variety of ways. The most common involved me doing a back flip, sticking my head between the springs as my body continued backward over the bar as my neck finally succumbed to the pressure and would snap.

While mountain biking I’d imagine wrecks that would leave me broken, bloodied, and paralyzed. But in my mind the wreck never killed me. Death came later as I tried to pull myself to safety; usually being eaten by wolves or a bear. (After I watched the movie, Deliverance, the wild animals were substituted by back-woods hillbillies that would eat me only after robbing me of my virtue.)

No matter what the scenario, it’s usually long and detailed. And since I’ve never sat down with a psychologist and explained the fixation I’ve never learned if it’s either abnormal or unhealthy. I’ve just always assumed that since I’m a functioning member of society and I have no desire to harm myself that this violent imagery doesn’t put me in any high-risk psychological categories. Maybe it’s an asset. Maybe when I do finally meet my end I’ll be able to say, while drifting away from my lifeless body, “I saw that coming from a mile away.” Unless, of course, I die of old age. That would totally come out of left field.

Just out of curiosity, have you ever thought about it? If so, how to you meet your end?

The Animal Within

Somehow I’m getting cable at my house. I'm not paying for it but it's coming through. The angel inside of me wants to call the cable company and come clean. But the pirate inside of me ran the angel through with his blade. Now, the pirate and I sit back, with feet up, and watch all kinds of nonsense while our bodies atrophy away to a soft pudge. Of all my new-found television interests one of the programs I’ve really learned to enjoy is UFC (Ultimate Fighting Challenge) broadcasts. I think the UFC is entertaining for the same reason programs like WWE, When Animals Attack, and Americas Funniest Videos are entertaining. Because is satisfies a deep seeded blood lust that has been buried under layers of hundreds of years of “civilization.” We may wear a suit and tie and work nine to five and buy our meat pre-wrapped but some ancient part of our nature still wants to hunt, battle, kill, and feel like a predator now and then.

(Side note: I think “Americas Funniest Videos” should be called “Taking it in the Crotch” since every other shot is some poor schmuck getting whacked in the hobbits by his own child or some piece of sports paraphernalia.)

I digress.

I don't know if this feeling is common among men, but as I sit there, bowl of Lucky Charms in hand, milk on my chin, watching these modern day gladiators, I can't help but think, "I could do that." You're probably thinking I'm a naive egomaniac, but bare with me. I figure you've only got to be able to do two things. First, you've got to be able to move fast; speed. This I've got in spades. Sometimes when I'm shadowboxing with myself in the mirror, and my hands start moving with the fury of a class five hurricane, I lose track of them and I almost knock myself out. Also, sometimes when I'm River Dancing, I do an Irish kick so hard that the momentum takes the other leg off the ground and I land on my back. That's the kind of speed I'm talking about. Other than speed you've got to be able to take a hit. This also should not be a problem. And let me tell you why. During my freshman year of high school I once took a flying discus to the temple and walked away without even a concussion. Another time, while riding motorbikes with my brothers, I took a diving header over the handlebars sans helmet. At the end of my flight my cranium head-butted a 20 pound rock. The result; I got six stitches in my crown but the rock got split like a melon. My head is the perfect target for heavy blows.

Now, the physical part of it aside, I do think I would have a hard time with the mental aspect of cage fighting. My whole life I have been more of a lover than a fighter. But to cage fight you have to be willing and able to put the hurt on anyone who steps into the ring with you, and I just don't think I have that mental "kill switch" that you need to survive in there. I have to really dislike a person to put the kybosh on them. So, all although I have all the makings of a killing machine, you will probably just get a nod and a polite hello should we pass on the street. But just a word of warning; should you try and hit me in the head with a discus; oh man, Heaven help you. Because once the "River-Dancer" comes out. There's not much I can do to restrain him.