Living Life

 I don’t know if it is age or just the state of the world in general, but in the last two years, life seems to be moving faster than ever. Suddenly it’s Monday, then July, and then my birthday, then another new year. It’s all a goddamned blur. My life is half over and what have I done? Have I lived my life? Have I experienced enough? Have I lived not just my life, but a life? Henry Miller experienced a hundred lives in his lifetime. With all that swirling around my head, I decided, I am going to live life to its fullest and without fear. Each week I would live a new life.

                                                               WEEK ONE

Not ever having a successful marriage and a stable family home life, I flew to Ohio and found myself a lonely mother of three. Over a dinner at Red Lobster, I convinced this woman I was madly in love with her. It was fairly easy to do since she was still devastated from her husband leaving her for a cheerleader that he met while coaching football at a community college. A day later we were married. After our honeymoon (which was a day at the local Super 8), I moved in and got a job selling auto insurance. 

 I loved coming home to my three kids and beautiful wife after a long, hard day at the office. I don’t know what I loved more – having dinner with the family and discussing those beautiful kids’ day at school or tucking them in at night. I could tell my wife really loved me because she’d stare at me with gooey eyes and say, “I can’t believe you came into my life. You are a gift from heaven.” 

  It’s too bad late Sunday night her gift from heaven took a fifty out of her purse, snuck out the back door, and stole her car so he could drive off to his next life.


                                                                      WEEK TWO

Monday morning I arrived at His Holy Son Baptist Church in Pensacola, Florida. By 8:00 A.M. I gave my life to Christ. At 9:00 A.M. I was at the local Planned Parenthood throwing fetuses at teenaged girls. Serves them right, too. That’s what they get for being Godless sluts. I did this every day, and I loved it. 

  I loved seeing the tears roll down those young girls’ faces. I knew I was doing God’s work, that through this humiliation those teenagers would see the error of their ways, repent, give their lives to Christ, hopefully not abort the innocent life, and make the wise choice of letting it live in an orphanage or even better a foster home. 

 I spent my nights worshiping, discussing ways to rid America of abortion, liberals, and how to get prayer back in school. Thursday night the church leader approached me to tell me how greatly he respected my commitment to Christ and the cause. He asked if I’d like to take my commitment to the next phase.

  “Of course”, I said. “Anything for my Lord.”

 He then showed me some pictures of an Abortion Doctor who lived in Southern California. I took the leader’s car, a high-powered rifle, and my bible and drove nonstop through the night and following day until I arrived in a city that shall remain nameless due to legal action that could be brought up against me. I hid behind some trees and watched the Doctor have dinner with his family. My stomach filled with hatred as I watched him pat his son’s head. Oh, the irony! He probably used that hand to kill someone else’s son that very morning. 

  I got the doctor in my crosshairs, fired, and accidentally hit his son. As his family screamed and yelled in horror, it dawned on me: I probably should have practiced since I had never fired a gun in my life. I aimed the gun again at the doctor, fired, and ended up killing his puppy. “Son of a bitch,” I said to myself. “Why must an innocent puppy suffer for a baby killer?” 

  I then prayed for Jesus to guide my hand, aimed, and then killed me an Abortion Doctor. I guess Jesus does want them dead. I tossed my rifle into a creek, jumped on the 101, and headed to the airport for my next adventure.


                                                         WEEK THREE

  In my third life, I decided I needed to kick it up a notch and become a rugged individual like my heroes, Henry Miller and Ernest Hemmingway. So off to Spain I went for the adventure.

Wanting to look like my heroes, I tied a red sash around my neck, slapped a beret on top my head, and donned an unbuttoned loose linen shirt. Quickly realizing I looked like a gay painter, I switched back to Levi’s and a t-shirt and headed down to my local watering hole to get drunk and find a brawl.

 I entered a quaint, lovely café, downed fourteen shots of something Spanish, and then proceeded to punch the mustachioed gentlemen seated next to me. 

In my drunken rush to live life, I mistook a red wine stain for a mustache and discovered I had punched an unattractive woman. This resulted in me being attacked by several men who beat and then tossed me into the street. As I lay there looking at the beautiful night sky, I thought, “I should have gone to Ireland where drunkenly punching woman is a social norm.”

 The following morning I awoke in my two-bit room to a beautiful view of the Aegean Sea. Not being one for geography, I wasn’t certain it was the Aegean Sea, but it sure was breathtaking. I looked out at the water, thought it was good to be alive, and then headed to the Pamplona streets.

  I had seen the running of the bulls many times on television but being in the thick of it is a whole different experience. You are standing in the street with hundreds of people, wild-eyed from the adrenaline rapidly pumping through their blood. Time seems to jump forward in clicks as the gates open and you hear the clops of the bulls’ hooves.

I swear to you, as one of the bulls came out it made direct eye contact with me and then bolted towards me. Out of nowhere, I heard the intense screams of a girl and then realized it was me who was screaming. 

  I began to run but my legs felt heavy as if my blood had thickened and clotted in my muscles. My breath felt as though I was exhaling arctic air, and then I felt a bullhorn catch me right below my right ass cheek. 

   I was lifted high above the bull’s head. For a brief second I noticed the beautiful skyline and thought, I am truly fortunate to be in Spain. Before I knew it I was sailing through the air. 

 From the second the bull hit me, my mind started spinning a long series of thoughts that in normal time would have taken hours to process but, in this heightened moment, came at a rapid succession that took half a milli-second. Here are some of the thoughts I had: Oh shit! Ouch! The bull has hit me. Oh my God I hope that horn doesn’t, oh it didn’t. Wow look at that. I hope I paid my phone bill. I didn’t love enough. Oh fuck. I want to do push ups. Why did I try so hard to get people to like me? I am going to eat more corn. Bliss. Sweet bliss. Is that pee? A wall!

  I hit the wall and landed safely and fairly unharmed. As I lay on the cool cobblestone walkway, thankful to be alive, I realized that I didn’t need to live any more lives and that my life was fine.  Sure, it is dull and unexceptional, but that is ok. The world needs cogs in the machine, ne’er-do-wells, and dolts. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have great men. With that thought I smiled and looked forward to returning to my old ways. Then I realized in fact, it was pee.