Friday, July 21, 2017

In The End, Blow Up The Outside World

In The End, Blow Up The Outside World
by Rob Cottignies



I hate hypothetical situations, but here's one anyway:

Suppose I find out that I'm going to die tomorrow. This source is 100% positive and is able to convince me of that.

It's 5:00pm. I make some phone calls, tie up loose ends, check Facebook, etc. Then I decide that I will not let Death take me but I will go to him. So at 10:00pm, after eating an entire pizza, I drink some beers that have been in my fridge for years waiting for the perfect time. I wouldn't exactly call this perfect, but I drink (in a fairly particular order) 2016 Multifarious by Jester King, 2014 Westvleteren 12, 2014 Blasphemy by Weyerbacher, then finish with 2013 Black Ops by Brooklyn.

I'm drunk. Really drunk. And full. Really full.

It's 11:30pm and I run out my front door screaming. I'm wearing a Viking helmet and no pants. I'm chugging one last beer (Habanero Sculpin by Ballast Point- gotta go out with a bang) when my neighbors come over. They're so nosy. Like a drunk pantless Viking screaming obscenities near midnight warrants attention.

I pass out. Somewhere in my mind, I know I'll never wake up.

An ambulance comes and takes me to a hospital. I don't know which one. Like it matters. The doctors do all they can but at 2:00am I'm declared dead from alcohol poisoning. I did it. I beat Death to the punch.

However…

The prophecy was correct. I died tomorrow. But what killed me started today and wouldn't have begun if I hadn't heard the prophecy. So was it really correct? If I didn't drink myself to death, would another doom have been waiting for me?

It all comes down to fate:

For those who believe in fate, I was supposed to hear this prediction then get really drunk off of really awesome beer. For those who don't believe, something else was definitely going to happen at some point tomorrow.

What's the point of all this? I don't know. But I say you should have fun while you can because having fun is great and not having fun is stupid.

Before anyone gets all nervous or whatever, there's nothing to worry about. I'm fine and shall continue to be so until something decides I shouldn't be anymore.

Some of you might say, 'I know those excellent beers are strong, but would they be enough to kill you?' Maybe, but the shots of Evan Williams bourbon during the whole escapade probably sealed the deal. And why didn't I throw up? Because I'm tough, that's why.


(This piece is oddly dedicated to my memories of Chris Cornell and Chester Bennington.)

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