Time To Die

So I'm walking down my street with what feels like ten tons of groceries, when I see a somewhat dishevelled looking woman, pouring water from a clear, glass vase across the street in a long line. Look pretty ritualistic and I'm always up for a good conversation so I smile as I pass by but before I can say anything, she speaks: "You are going to die a horrible death," she hisses." Because you sold your soul to the devil and god hasn't forgiven you yet." I thank her for the heads up and make plans to immediately cash my RRSP. Apparently God doesn't do home visits anymore and he's going to call me up to the carpet pretty soon to chat about some decisions I've made and I'm not even sure if I can refute him with the words: "You're not my real dad!" For the next little while I'm thinking about it. It's hard not to for two reasons. One, it's creepy and I don't want to die and two, it would be really annoying if some crazy person just happened to predict my death. I would really resent that. However, I would later find out that God loves a good head fake. See, while I was thinking that my death would occur on the material plane, it turns out it was to occur on the comedic plane just a few days later at a showcase for the Halifax Comedy Festival and Satellite Radio. She was right, it was pretty horrible and had I know this was going to happen I so would not have leased my sould to the devil. I would've been fine if it wasn't for everyone telling me how important this show was. Then you get in your head, the wheels start working and an audience can see (and hate) that. It wasn't complete silence but it was still a death. And an onstage death is very much like a real death in that no one sees you afterwards when you're walking among them. Ugh. Very unpleasant. All this to say: homeboy probably shouldn't do showcases.

Doesn't help that I was pretty liquored but whatever.