Narcissit? Who me?

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

More Morbidity



  The other day I was having a shower and in between strict and rigid exfoliation, as it is wont to do, of course one thing lead to another and du du duh....  I got to thinking about my skull.

I began to think about it while I was lathering this vegan apple cider shampoo through my hair. It doesn't really mater that is is vegan because I'm not vegan but I like that it is vegan. It makes me feel better about how last week I chased a chicken around my parking lot wearing a bib, and carrying a fork and knife. I know what you going to say, and I know, weird neighborhood right? 


Anyways, I was 40 minutes into my shower, or about what I would pin-point as about the halfway mark,   and i noticed a ridge along the top of my head. I am sure I have felt it before, but because I don't have a lot going on in personal life right now, I thought "Ahh... what the hell! Let's got for broke on cranial exploration!" And I felt the ridge and the bumps and lumps, and fun never-fully-closed soft spot, and I began to think of my skull, and then my bones. And then a realization pushed its way through that soft spot and took root in my brain. And that thought it WE'RE ALL SKELETONS, GUYS!!! 


I know that might not come as a surprise to some of you, but it came as a surprise to me. Skeletons don't just creep in to replace us when we are gone, they don't just appear when we die to prop up our bodies when the pixies that make us up fly out and go to heaven (that last part is still true though, don't worry. We are still made up of a herd of pixies. They are just inside us with the bones and junk!) Bones are there all the time. Maybe I would have a better understanding of this fact if I had ever broken a bone but you  don't break a lot of bones reading doing what I do. The only feasible situation where I could've broken a bone in my youth was if a masked man, know to my village as "The Mad-Man Marrow Masher" came and broke my arm over his knee while I was reading Garfield comics. Apart from this scenario, it would be virtually impossible for me to break a bone. But I digress...

Under all my wonderful air of incredibleness, below the housecoat, and pajamas, and the second emergency set of pajamas, and hair, and skin, and, what I assume to be atrophied, muscles, are our bones. They are always there. Always!!

At this point my outer layers, and by that I mean skin, was getting really prune-y and wrinkly and I had been standing slack-jawed, feeling the weird cartilage of my nose while water poured down my face like a sadness waterfall. All in all, it was about on par with the rest of my week, but it sure got me thinking about death. Specifically my own.

If I have bones, and if we are all just animated skeletons doing a less choreographed version of this old filmstrip called "Dem Bones, Dem Bones" that my elementary school had and would trot out of storage around Halloween, or a Health & Science unit on the human body, or rainy day, then one day when m pixies fly-I'm not going to be here. I am not going to be myself. I am going to just be a skeleton. And then I started freakin out!

I live the majority of my life alone. I live alone, I eat alone, I go to sleep alone, and I wake up with a severed horse head beside be every day (Okay, so it's not "severed" and is more of a "Stuffed horsie head on a stick that neighs when I ride it") so in other words ALONE! And what if one day while I was doing, as I always do- going hiking without telling anyone- I were to fall into a crevasse and have my arm stuck under a rock, and since my biggest fear is losing a limb, I was not able to cut my arm off, and I was do die. Then what? I would be picked at my vultures and stuff until just my bones remained. Then what? Would I be identified?

Would my bones be recognized? Would they look at my skull and see the nicks of a thousand left-open-cupboard-doors. Would they see there wear on one of my hip bones and say "He must have watched TV leaning to the right- DANIEL?!?!" Would they see the sulk of my spine and identify it as my own personal brand of low self esteem posturing?

I hope so. I really hope so. I hope that when my nose is gone, and my freckled skin has rotted off, someone will know me.

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