It’s Coming
You’re gonna lose all of your teeth, maybe down the drain when you’re brushing for the recommended two minutes. The sky is going to fall just like Chicken Little warned and it sure as shit will bust up your car.
Your friends will turn you in for murder, even if you haven’t killed a single soul. The skin on your hands will blister, like that time Josh dropped your dirtbike on his thighs, revving the engine and melting his leg into wax. You’ll hear bad news from the doctor and have to go home to tell your family you don’t have long to live.
The bank will take your house, literally take it out from under you, a big truck hauling it off to some other neighborhood where the property values are “through the roof”. You’ll lose an eye to a freak cooking accident, it’ll pop right out and roll off the counter and if you’re really unlucky the cat will knock it under the fridge. You’ll choke on your salad, bringing a little chewed kale up and out your nose in the middle of a lunch meeting with your new boss.
People won’t quickly forget what you did. You might get stabbed in your sleep because you’ve been watching too many serial killer documentaries, or maybe you’ll just slip in the shower and crack your stupid, fucking skull wide open on the faucet.
Your kids will be embarrassed when you drop them off at school, even the five-year-old who promised you’d always be his “favorite”. Your teachers will give you bad grades, just because they don’t like the safety pins you stick in your ears. You’ll lose all of your money in a game of Blackjack and offer up one of your kidneys under duress, to pay the debt.
You’ll get lost in a freak snow-squall driving home from work, slide off the road and knock yourself into oblivion on the steering wheel, buried under the drifts until hunters find you after the thaw. Maybe you’ll catch some super-bug, something the scientists haven’t discovered yet and that bug will eat you right out from the inside.
You’re gonna catch a fish hook in your lip when you cast back hard to impress that girl of yours and it’ll dig in deep and she’ll have to use pliers to pull it out and don’t think you won’t bleed all over her. Your dog is going to hit by a train or maybe by lighting or maybe even impale itself through the guts trying to jump a rot iron fence.
You’ll break your wrist on Susannah’s trampoline, doing that fake-ass backflip you’ve been trying to perfect. You’ll wake up one hungover Sunday morning and wonder where you left your wallet, then remember quite clearly it was in the bathroom at the rest stop and that will induce a three-day panic attack. You’ll take the wrong medication for a whole week and then realize that you have been feeding Paxil to your cat.
You won’t know it’s coming, but a blood balloon will go “pop” in your brain and you’ll go out face down in the macaroni salad, regretting the tattoo of a dancing bear you got while drunk on wine coolers on your 18th birthday.
