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Description
Shut the fuck up and listen.

I dont like repeating myself.

You have one minute. Thats it. You have one minute left. Sixty seconds. Then youre dead.

Starting now.

There's a cold silence. I tell the voice on the other end of the connection, listen.

Youve got sixty seconds. You have fifty nine seconds to figure it all out. Fifty five seconds to find yourself. Fifty two. Thats it.

Forty eight.

You better hurry. You arent getting any younger.

Forty five.

You cant pause and rewind this. Its not a movie, not TiVo, not pre-recorded.

This isnt some tele-evangalist speech like your used to watching while you drink your beer at 2am and jack off. This is the life lesson you should have learned years ago. You are alive now, for forty more seconds. There are choices to be made.

Your heart is still beating. What are you waiting for? This is real. Thirty eight seconds until you find out how mustard gas feels. Youll claw your skin off, starting at the groin. Thirty six seconds until you finally understand that there are many ways to end up in the same casket.

In thirty four seconds your car is going to hit a patch of ice on the freeway. You wont feel a thing. Did you remember to shut off the coffee pot before you left this morning?

In twenty nine seconds you will feel the trembling of a massive earthquake and a large piece of your wine glass cutting through your jugular. Youll choke on your cheesecake, your husband will find you sleeping with his brother, your bungee cord will snap. Youll finally pull the trigger. Youll find God.

And, fuck. You didnt pay the electric bill in time.

Eighteen seconds, and counting.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Youve got fifteen seconds left of breathing to do. Youll never make your interview in Minneapolis, your business meeting in Seattle. What are you going to tell your boss? Hell fire your ass if youre late.

On the bright side, theres only a small chance of being late to that funeral next week. After all, its yours.

Ten.

You need to pick up your dry-cleaning.

Nine. Eight. Seven.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The car needs its brakes checked. Did you test your smoke detectors batteries? Its about that time.

Five.

The kids have soccer at 6..

Four.

Balance the checkbook.

Three.

Youre too stressed. You can't deal with this kind of pressure.

Two.

Are these things really that big of a priority right now?

Oh well, I say. You're too late. You loose, I tell him.

My dads on the other end of the line. "What the hell are you talking about?"

I could die at any moment, I say. He doesnt understand. I tell him, this could be my last minute.

"You arent dying. This is rediculous." He doesnt get it.

Dying doesn't exist. Death isn't a process. Death is the first moment you don't have.

Im driving. I have both hands on the wheel. My foot presses the pedal down and the car shakes. Im speeding Dad. Im going seven over, I tell him. Right now, Im only two seconds from suicide. Two seconds from putting that American Family life insurance policy to good use.

"So do it, I don't give a flying fuck. But goddamn, if your trash isnt cleaned up by the time I get home from work , Im throwing your shit out on the curb." He yells as though Im listening. "Tomorrows garbage day. I wouldnt recommend staying out all night. You forget this isn't you're home, you're just living here."

Home is relative, I tell him. Time is not.

I'm still alive right now. In this moment, I'm still breathing. This moment is all I have.

And then the phone line goes dead. The moment ends itself in broken pieces curbside on Interstate-29. I'm gripping the wheel, still, for now.

And this time, home is wherever the hell I am, because time's too fragile to waste on searching for one.

Description
Shut the fuck up and listen.

I dont like repeating myself.

You have one minute. Thats it. You have one minute left. Sixty seconds. Then youre dead.

Starting now.

There's a cold silence. I tell the voice on the other end of the connection, listen.

Youve got sixty seconds. You have fifty nine seconds to figure it all out. Fifty five seconds to find yourself. Fifty two. Thats it.

Forty eight.

You better hurry. You arent getting any younger.

Forty five.

You cant pause and rewind this. Its not a movie, not TiVo, not pre-recorded.

This isnt some tele-evangalist speech like your used to watching while you drink your beer at 2am and jack off. This is the life lesson you should have learned years ago. You are alive now, for forty more seconds. There are choices to be made.

Your heart is still beating. What are you waiting for? This is real. Thirty eight seconds until you find out how mustard gas feels. Youll claw your skin off, starting at the groin. Thirty six seconds until you finally understand that there are many ways to end up in the same casket.

In thirty four seconds your car is going to hit a patch of ice on the freeway. You wont feel a thing. Did you remember to shut off the coffee pot before you left this morning?

In twenty nine seconds you will feel the trembling of a massive earthquake and a large piece of your wine glass cutting through your jugular. Youll choke on your cheesecake, your husband will find you sleeping with his brother, your bungee cord will snap. Youll finally pull the trigger. Youll find God.

And, fuck. You didnt pay the electric bill in time.

Eighteen seconds, and counting.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Youve got fifteen seconds left of breathing to do. Youll never make your interview in Minneapolis, your business meeting in Seattle. What are you going to tell your boss? Hell fire your ass if youre late.

On the bright side, theres only a small chance of being late to that funeral next week. After all, its yours.

Ten.

You need to pick up your dry-cleaning.

Nine. Eight. Seven.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The car needs its brakes checked. Did you test your smoke detectors batteries? Its about that time.

Five.

The kids have soccer at 6..

Four.

Balance the checkbook.

Three.

Youre too stressed. You can't deal with this kind of pressure.

Two.

Are these things really that big of a priority right now?

Oh well, I say. You're too late. You loose, I tell him.

My dads on the other end of the line. "What the hell are you talking about?"

I could die at any moment, I say. He doesnt understand. I tell him, this could be my last minute.

"You arent dying. This is rediculous." He doesnt get it.

Dying doesn't exist. Death isn't a process. Death is the first moment you don't have.

Im driving. I have both hands on the wheel. My foot presses the pedal down and the car shakes. Im speeding Dad. Im going seven over, I tell him. Right now, Im only two seconds from suicide. Two seconds from putting that American Family life insurance policy to good use.

"So do it, I don't give a flying fuck. But goddamn, if your trash isnt cleaned up by the time I get home from work , Im throwing your shit out on the curb." He yells as though Im listening. "Tomorrows garbage day. I wouldnt recommend staying out all night. You forget this isn't you're home, you're just living here."

Home is relative, I tell him. Time is not.

I'm still alive right now. In this moment, I'm still breathing. This moment is all I have.

And then the phone line goes dead. The moment ends itself in broken pieces curbside on Interstate-29. I'm gripping the wheel, still, for now.

And this time, home is wherever the hell I am, because time's too fragile to waste on searching for one.