New Port Richey

I was dead for 12 hours in Tampa, at Tampa General. Unresponsive and with no ID, they cut my only pants off. I was minutes from not waking up. I woke with a foley coming out of me and an urge to urinate. I pulled at the tube.

“No, you don’t want to pull it out.”
“Where are my pants?”
“We cut them off. Don’t pull that out. I promise you’re not going to like it.” I pull it out. He’s right. Fire shoots up and down with every breath. Still no urine.
“I need pants.”
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday. You came on Sunday.”
“Fuck. I need pants.” Breathe. It’s only time. It’s supposed to go by. “I need pants.”
“You can’t leave.”
“I’m leaving. I need pants.”
“You’re RMA.”
“I don’t give a fuck what I am. I don’t know where I am. I need pants.”

And this is how I ended up in New Port Richey. I suppose I should have been scared of alligators, snakes, a puma. I grabbed some half-length blue scrubs. Took a piss and crawled into the woods. The weird part is that this actually happened. Florida brings out the crazy.

The whole point of this story is that there is no white light. There was nothing. And then there was the tachycardic beat as my eyes opened. I’m super convinced when you’re gone that’s it. This experience convinced me. It wasn’t sad. I didn’t feel sad. It was nothing. Like the billion years before my third birthday and conscious memory. It was just nothing.

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