Immortal Fear - 2

Image: https://eatsleepride.com/

< < Back to Immortal Fear -1

I’m dead.

It’s weird how logical you can be, flipping eighty miles per hour end over end through the air.  I wasn’t scared. My life didn’t pass before my eyes. It’s kind of like a video game – some stupid kid tosses a grenade into your path and you amble right over it. I’m dead.  It’s a pretty normal reaction, right?

Life isn’t like a video game, though.  It’s weird, I must have been flipping pretty quickly, I eventually lost track of which were oncoming headlights and which were stars – it was disorienting enough to make a guy nauseous.

No, that isn’t right. Really? What was making me nauseous? The view, or the spinning?

A traumatic event doesn’t make time slow down, it’s more like your ability to perceive increases.  As I tumbled through the air I saw everything.  My motorcycle, like some ballet dancer, pirouetted in the air before slamming into the guard rail.  Fuck, I thought with an odd calmness, there goes my Ducati.

God, it died almost as sexy as I would. 

That’s not morbid, it’s a fact – Ducati’s are the sexiest motorcycles on the market.

Cars swerved and slowed in the mayhem.  I couldn’t hear anything though, which I thought was odd since the buzz of the engine was ever present on the open road.  Kelly always told me that bike would be the death of me.  Or was it Marissa? Jillian? It wasn’t important. Women were always telling me how to live my life, starting with my mother. 

The ground was closer with every rotation. How do you brace yourself for a fall like this? The DMV makes you take a motorcycle safety course before they’ll issue you a license.  It’s a big song and dance about knowing your vehicle, how to control a slide, and what type of clothing will best protect you from road rash. I guess it doesn’t really matter – there’s no way I would be getting up from this.  My leathers sure as hell weren’t going to protect me.

I tensed my body hoping my left arm would hit before my hip, breaking a portion of my fall. As I struck the asphalt my arm hit with a guttural pop and grind.  I’d broken my arm before as a kid, but not above the elbow.  I remember it  hurting like hell and I felt like this time it should hurt a lot worse, but… nothing: just like popping a knuckle.  Maybe there wasn’t enough time, almost immediately afterwards my hip slammed into the pavement – suddenly I knew what it felt like to be a snail; that soft crunching sound when you step on them?  The sound must have been really satisfying.  The pressure on my body was overwhelming but I wouldn’t describe it as painful.

A near death experiences was supposed to be a blur of raw emotion and fear.  Mine was crystal clear.  Ever see on the Discovery Channel when a gazelle stops to take a drink and an alligator pops out.  Surprise!  The gazelle struggles to escape but it’s got a calm, almost logical, accepting demeanor.  I couldn’t forget this moment with all the whiskey in Ireland but if I walked away from this, I intended to try.  I rolled sixteen and a half times: nine in the air and seven and a half after hitting the street.  My ribs snapped like a dry wishbone.  If there had been two people pulling on my ribs, they’d both likely get their wish. One of them punctured my lung around roll twelve.  As I stopped I realized I couldn’t catch my breath.  Maybe this is what it felt like when I stole that kid’s inhaler back in the fourth grade. 

I hadn’t realized what a sadistic guy I was.

Then again, I kill people for a living.

I laid in the middle of the road face down.  Every breath I took a gasp.  I still wasn’t in any pain.  Maybe it was shock.  I must have closed my eyes when I hit the ground.  Every muscle in my body was taunt.  My eyes finally opened to see blood oozing to the ground beneath me.  Most of my nose and chin would be smeared on the road behind me.  My visor must have splintered and broken away. That what I get for buying a helmet based on looks, not on safety features. 

Wear a better helmet nah-nah-nah, I heard her say, as if mocking myself.  She’d said it a hundred times with her incessant nagging. God, how is she nagging me on my death… road?

Turning over would probably be a good idea.  I mean, I doubt breathing in asphalt was good for your health – although neither was a pack a day habit or wrecking your bike on the interstate for that matter. I tried to move my legs.

Nothing.

Not a good sign.

How had this happened anyway?  I was tailing my mark in the Maserati, then…

White cars. Right.

Did I still have my gun? If someone had it out for me but didn’t have the common courtesy to just put a bullet in me, they probably wouldn’t break their stride to put me out of my misery after so blatantly sending my bike and I tumbling across the interstate but just in case, I wanted to be able to show them my ‘gratitude.’

I heard a car door slam, and footsteps running towards me.  If they had come back to finish the job, I didn’t have a whole lot of time.

It takes a handsome, brute of a man to conceal a Desert Eagle .50.  Luckily, a more sexy or brutal man than I, you could not find.  I felt the muscles tense in my arm, then the rough blacktop beneath my hand as it tried to reach under my body into my shoulder holster.  That arm was definitely broken.  It had the same feeling as though it were asleep; you know, pins and needles? Almost like it tickled – no, not in a good way.  There was no way I’d reach my shoulder holster in this condition and the footsteps were growing closer.  Like it mattered. Vengeance was a dish best served when you’re not dead.

“Easy, lad. Don’t move. Help is on the way,” a thick Irish voice said from above me.

“Gurnnnngggg…”

That wasn’t right.  I’d meant to say, let me die in peace you… you…

I guess if he wasn’t going to put a bullet in me, he didn’t deserve my wrath but god, good Samaritans were annoying.

I realized then the street sounds were back.  That’s a good sign, I guess. I tried to get my hands underneath me – I was tired of sharing fluids with the street. That didn’t work out too well. The minute I tried pushing myself up I began to cough violently. Blood splattered on the ground in front of me.

Oh right.  Punctured lung.

“Stay still, lad,” a hand pressed on my shoulder. I’m sure it was meant to be a comforting gesture but it was forceful enough to keep me in my place. “Exacerbatin’ a spinal injury is a good way to wind up in a wheelchair.”  I couldn’t even see this prick and all I could think of was punching him in his fat potato face.

Suddenly all I could think of was a giant Mr. Potato Head doll restraining me in the middle of a southern California interstate. I must have lost a lot of blood; I mean, I’m not usually a racist, but potato face?

That’s hilarious.

With that level of lunacy I should have been knock, knock, knockin’ on Heaven’s door already. I wasn’t complaining, mind you;  It wasn’t all that bad. I could barely breath, moving was out of the question and I had the cheery company of strangers I already knew I didn’t like.

Just like my birthday.

“Oh god!” That was a new voice. “Is he okay?”

I can’t even see me and I know the answer to that one, lady.

“Give him space, I think he has a broken neck,” Potato Face said.

Broken neck, that would make sense.  I loved in those Hollywood espionage movies; they’d sneak up behind someone, snap their neck and down they’d go.

“Stay with me lad, and you’ll make it through this,” he lied.

I envied those spy bastards. 

“Everyone just stand back, please. The paramedics are on their way.”

Everyone? I didn’t expect my fifteen minutes of fame would come on the interstate.  Freak show always draws a crowd I guess, no matter where it is. I must have been a hell of a sight, too.  Broken ribs, arm – my lower half couldn’t be in much better shape.  My face! How could I have stolen that light from the world? Hell, it was that trustworthy face of mine that made me so successful.  No one noticed a handsome man as long as you didn’t do things to draw attention to yourself. Like the opposite of a homeless man; everyone ignores you until you start begging, then they just pretend to ignore you.

I felt someone kneel down beside me. “Our Lord, God, has sent me to your side”

What was this guy, some kind of priest?  If there was a God, he had a sick sense of humor.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven. Hallowed be Thy Name,” he continued but I stopped listening.  If there really was an afterlife I hoped it was the seventy-two virgins kind.  I’m not a womanizer, I just really like banging chicks. Didn’t the Vikings have some kind of hall where you could get shit-faced and kill each other until the end of time?  That was probably more my style, I didn’t want to be nagged for all eternity.

It was getting really hard to breath.  I forced out a cough and blood gurgled in the back of my throat.  I started to feel very cold.  Why did blood have that weird metallic taste?  I could hear the faint sound of sirens approaching.  Small miracles I guess, they would arrive just in time to pronounce me dead.

“May the Lord protect you and lead you to eternal life.  In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

The commotion from the crowd rose as the sirens came to a stop. Doors slammed and footsteps silently approached me. My last thought was, How can I get to the afterlife without my bike?
To Immortal Fear - 3 > >

Your 20s are for Narcissism and Why You Need to Forgive Yourself.

There are so many articles being shared on my feed these days about selfies being linked to mental disorder and narcissism its staggering. I get it, selfies are a thing, I’m old, I have to deal with it. But it’s not just selfies: the whole world is wrapped up in itself. We talk about a rampant lack of empathy among peers, and the dating game… don’t get me started! (warning, I’ve already started). The problem is, for those of us in our late 20s and 30s, we find this intense dislike and frustration for the people who are maybe five years younger than us because suddenly something changed and we’ve forgotten why, when we were in our 20s, we acted the way they do. The reality is, we need to forgive ourselves in order to let our younger counterparts do the things that they need to do to get to the place we’re in.

Having spent ten years in my 20s I think it’s safe to say that I’m an expert on this topic. 

First of all, what’s a selfie? If you’re reading this and don’t know, you’re probably going to laugh at the advice I’m giving and want to give me some of your own. Believe me, I’ll take it! That’s one thing I’ve found is after 30, you’re much more willing to take the advice of  your elders. But here’s an example if you want to keep reading.

The duck face, in it's natural habitat

Here I am, giving the duckface. It’s really a classic. I feel that my left side is really my best profile and the way my lips protrude from my beard gives the opposite sex the idea that I’m super confident and sexy. I found that the Losdales filter really brought out my eyes. I hope I get a bunch of likes!

Sarcasm aside, this is what we’re talking about when we think of narcissism. “Look at me! Notice me! FOR GOD’S SAKE SOMEBODY PLEASE NOTICE ME!”

It’s a dance, and you’re doing it because all of your peers are doing it. It’s not really peer pressure, it’s more like you and each of your friends are massive, hydrogen fueled stars in a PULSAR galaxy. Gamma ray bursts (selfies) are firing out of that galaxy so brightly that the rest of the universe (the rest of the universe) can see it, but at this point we all know what’s going on, so we kind of ignore it.

But, if you’re another one of those stars in the galaxy, you pay attention to that gamma ray and you want to be a part of it. I’ll drop the metaphor. You see your friends getting attention: you want attention.

Now because I took a metric-butt-ton of selfies in preparation for this blog I feel the need to share them.

Mom photo bombed
me

I like coffee with my writing, so does
 my Dragon

I really do think my left
side looks best!

So are selfies the cause of narcissism or are selfies the result of narcissism?

Let’s consider the evolution of social relationships for a moment, shall we?

As sexual being, our physiological need is to mate. For males, generally, it’s to accumulate wealth showing females you have the resources to care for off-spring. For females, generally, it’s to show sexual fertility showing you’re able to produce children. We can clearly see these differences when we look at examples of different genders posting selfies.

 If you look at DanBilzarian’s Instagram (Not safe for work) you can see two things.  Pictures that display a great deal of wealth (ability to care for children) and the sheer volume of women that surround him (women are more likely to approach a man who other women have already vetted). Now I use Dan (sorry bro, you're just a great example), who's in his 30s, as an example here because of the reason this narcissism exists. Our 20s are when the majority of the population finds a mate and posting pictures on the internet is a great mating display that can reach a wide audience. 

Now if we take a look at only1aadrea's Instagram, we'll see some different characteristics. Her selfies are about beauty, adventurism, nurturing, and because of those things: fertility. 

What do the two have in common? They're both looking for mates - sexual partners to be more precise - yet they approach it in vastly different ways. Now I don't want to go much deeper than that about why, in nature, men trade resources for sex while women trade children for resources but suffice it to say, when women are pregnant and nursing they are effectively disabled and have a very difficult time gathering resources for themselves. Our modern world has been able to alleviate some of these pressures but from an evolutionary perspective, we have had this idea bread into our physiology and psychology for thousands upon thousands of years.

Men, on the other hand, are physically incapable of having children. So the trade is made willingly.

Check out David Stewart's page, if you haven't already, as I'm sure he's got something more in depth written on this subject.

For those of us who have exited the narcissism of our 20s, why is that? More than likely, we've found a mate, we've found a career, we're having children. This also explains why society wasn't seeing this phenomenon fifty years ago. Besides the fact that selfies and the internet and Instagram weren't around, the majority of people were having children in their early 20s so had no need for this mate attracting, narcissistic streak. Plus, if you have children, I don't think you really have the time for narcissism.

Now, I'm by no means suggesting that rampant narcissism doesn't exist for other reasons. For example:

Mom photo bombed me, so I selfie bombed her!

So if you're post 30 and you're frustrated at all the childish behavior on the internet, what do you do? Well the most important thing is to forgive ourselves. We've all had our share of stupidity and the sooner we can forgive ourselves for it, the sooner we can let other people live their lives and make the same mistakes we needed to make. Life is about making mistakes - if we lived in a bubble and never allowed ourselves to fail there would be no opportunity for growth.

But if you're young and want my advice remember just Las Vegas's slogan: What happens on the internet, STAYS on the internet. Just ask Beyonce.

It's over 9000 shares!

Frankly, we're all children until we're dead. If we give each other a little slack and remember that life's learning curve is pretty high we'd all be a lot nicer to each other. We're going to be learning new things until the day we die, just ask my 95 year old grand father, Chuck, who recently started blogging! 

Selfie on my friends, selfie on.