Did I ever tell you about the time I died? It sounds dramatic but it was really no big deal. My heart exploded, more or less, just like I always knew it would. My doctor once told me I had an enlarged heart, like there was something wrong with that. Sure I had a big heart. Everybody knew that about me. Big heart, sure.
I’ve known for a long time that there was something wrong with my heart. Sometimes if I took a deep breath it was like somebody stuck an ice-pick in my chest. So I stopped taking deep breaths. Also, it started going soft just when it should have been getting harder. My heart found endearing traits in places it had no business finding them. It laid itself down in the middle of my life and didn’t give a shit who saw the love spurting out of it. Making a mess everywhere. It put me in some very difficult predicaments.
When it blew it was like the sun exploded in the middle of my chest. I felt like I was underwater. I couldn’t breathe really, or see. It was like my body was imploding and, God as my witness, it was better than the greatest orgasm I ever had.
Death is overrated too. Like just about everything. You know what isn’t overrated? Love. That’s the only thing. And, as corny as it might sound, it turns out it’s all you need.