Here’s the story of a Volvo, death and muffins.
I’ve always imagined that dying is like driving to Belgium in a Volvo. I drank some funny water this week and it got me thinking about death. Not that I’m a hypochondriac. I mean it was really funny water. The word ‘hypochondria’ comes from Greek and it means ‘under cartilage of the breastbone’, first seen in 1839. Making it one of the first examples in history that a lot of fuss was made about that part of the body when it really isn’t necessary.
The thing is that water shouldn’t have a taste. When I looked at the water in my glass this week, it had a murky white-grey colour to it. It always does. After a while, you just accept that it’s always going to be there and that there’s not much you can do about it. You know, like the metric system. It tasted very sweet, too. Smelled nutty. I was convinced it was arsenic and that someone was trying to poison me, although pouring arsenic into a glass of water would mean the criminal is the most incompetent fool the world has ever known. Because of this, I actually started to suspect myself as the number one culprit.
Why would anyone do such a thing? I’m a loveable oaf with a quaint moonstruck tinge of hapless madcappery. Well, not loveable. Annoying. People are always annoyed at me. But I think so many people are that they just accept it. I don’t think I have a number one enemy. Someone who has access to arsenic. Someone who doesn’t know of a more efficient way to kill someone. You know, like a pillow. Fight, that is. A pillow fight. To the death.
Why aren’t I dead? I drank the arsenic so surely I shouldn’t be here. Maybe I am dead. Maybe we’re all dead. Maybe the Third World War happened and a mad scientist put us all in a dreamworld so we could carry on. Mind you, that dreamworld was almost eradicated recently by a huge asteroid. Maybe we’ve already been wiped out by an asteroid and a mad scientist put us all in a dreamworld so we could carry on. Then the first scientist met the second scientist in another dreamworld they created. They unleashed a virus in our second dreamworld so we’d be forced into their dreamworld where they would laud it over us. So a mad scientist in the second dreamworld created a new dreamworld whereby we could counter the attack from the fourth dreamworld. In the resulting carnage, a new dreamworld was created that actually turned out to be the original world that was hit with a terrible affliction causing us to be put in a dreamworld whereby the Third World War occurred. Then a mad scientist put us all in a dreamworld so we could carry on. An endless cycle. Why aren’t I dead? Maybe we are never alive in the first place. Either that or the arsenic wasn’t arsenic and instead was some silly juice resulting in me going crazy.
It would be hard to tell though, because some argue I was born that way. Still doesn’t draw us any nearer to the hopeful conclusion of this piece. The real culprit. I don’t think it was I. I think I can tell the difference between the taps. Hot, cold, ketchup, arsenic, bread.
When I was in secondary school, I had a feud with a manchild. I don’t know why he hated me. He made my life miserable. We always fought. Exchanged angry words. He spread rumours about me. Some were complimentary. I don’t think he understood the concept of a rumour. It’s why I suspect him. He also worked in the science block. Could it be him? Hmm.
I know what’s you’re all thinking. ‘When is this post gonna finish?’ and, ‘Why did you drink it if you knew it was bad?’ I am the man who drank from the taps in the toilets of the aforementioned science block. That isn’t water you’d give a dog. I was thirsty. Now, you may be wondering, ‘Why didn’t you look in the fridge?’ Because it didn’t occur to me, dear readers. Plus, I like water. When I die, it’ll be something like ‘choked on his toothbrush’, ‘choked on water’ or ‘choked on a muffin’. Even though I’ve never tried a muffin. That’s why I’ve never tried one. Because I know the day will come when I’m in a situation whereby I will be presented with a muffin. And if I eat it, I know I’ll choke and die. That’s why I’ve never ate one. But one can live without muffins, but can one live without water? Aha, now you’re with me. Or you’re completely lost. Or still praying I’ll finish soon.
I try not to be afraid of death. One day we’ll all get in that Volvo and drive in safe, luxurious comfort and with an excellent build quality, knowing our journey will be practical but highly boring and tedious. With nothing to look at but a grey, drab interior. With nothing to look forward to except Belgium. But Belgium is the perfect metaphor for the great unknown. Nobody likes to think about it but it’s surprisingly nice when you get there.
As for me? I no longer wonder about why the arsenic hasn’t killed me. Why? Because it’s been a few days and I don’t feel any worse than when I drank it? Because I’m breathing and typing merrily away? Because I’m still alive and life is for living?
No. As it turns out, the glass wasn’t clean.
I guess I am a hypochondriac.
British motorsport commentator and journalist, Graeme Murray Walker (b. 1923), once said: “Eight minutes past the hour here in Belgium – and presumably eight minutes past the hour everywhere in the world”.
Peace Out :|:
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(Note; image created by me; copyrighted 2013)