This mortal coil.

Originally uploaded by LIFE OF REILLY.

Today I was thinking about my own mortality. For a laugh I decided to check my death clock. Apparently I was supposed have died last year, on August 10, 2004. Eh? What the fuck? I wonder how much abuse the human body can take.

I've taken a fair battering over my life I reckon, and it's all starting to catch up with me. On the weekend at some points, my kidneys we're in agony. Like I'd been stabbed by tiny little knives. I coughed on a few occasions and thought a a piece of lung fell out, and every day for the last few months, when I wake up I feel like I've been hit with a sledgehammer in one spot on my back. It's intense. I thought it was maybe from the shingles, but now the shingles are gone, I'm fearing it might be permanent nerve damage. Great eh?

Part of the reason is that I somehow have been living the lie that I'm still 18. That's like 14 years ago. The temple that is my body, is starting to crumble. I need a total blood transfusion, some new kidneys, a liver, hell, throw in a new spine. Bring on future science. I want the works.

Another reason for my semi-morbidness that I've just finished reading Wonderland Avenue by Danny Sugerman who died recently of cancer. It's brilliant, and I won't give too much away, but it hit an all familiar vein with me. I recommend this book for everyone, because it has a valuable lesson that everyone can learn something from.

The lesson I'm attempting learn is to slow down and start to look after myself a bit better. I've taken some steps. I've joined a gym. Still haven't actually gone yet. Last time I tried to get to the gym, I had a phone call from a mate and ended up on a blinder till 3am on a Thursday night. Last Thursday to be exact. Y'know how stupid it looks when a bouncer checks your bag entering a club and and it's full of clean gym gear? I bet he's thinking "Hmmm, he's too clean to be 'omeless, but go to a gym? Farrrk off geeeza"

As for the slowing down bit, well this weekend's out of the question. It's this dame's birthday. I think a handbrake, in the form of a girlfriend would slow the death process down a bit. But here's the catch 22. How am I going meet a responsible, nurturing woman, who isn't a caner? I mean I can't see myself hanging in a library or signing up for arts and crafts, yoga, or some bullshit spiritual classes. Maybe I should go full throttle and find the girl of my dreams in rehab. I can see it know. "Yup. I'm a wreck baby, and so are you. We can get through this thing together." God how corny does that sound? It's enough to drive you to drink.

I think Woody Allen said it best: "It's not that I'm afraid to die, I just don't want to be there when it happens." That will suit me fine.