Chapter 2

Let's go back in time a bit--back to the night I inhaled recycled tacos. First off, if anyone tells you that dying doesn't hurt or that you forget that shit once you are gone, they obviously haven't died before. Do I really need to explain that? I am here to tell you, it sucks in every way and I remember it quite well. I remember the pain, I remember the fear, I remember having the time to be incredulous.

Like I said before, this was not the first time I had overeaten before bed and woke up retching. I have many times began puking up hot acid and pizza chunks while in the middle of a dream about riding a unicorn or walking naked in public. HOWEVER, all previous times this occurred, I would wake--just in the nick of time. I would cough and gasp, get up, take a Tums and go back to bed. Not this night. This night I woke up unable to breathe.

I was confused until I felt the familiar fiery burn in my throat. In retrospect, Xanax and wine might not have helped. I imagine the experience was not unlike getting shot by a sniper in the heart. I had this "what the fuck" moment, then realization dawned. I felt wild with panic. I attempted a weird sort of push-up on my elbows, trying all the while to inhale even a little air, but it was too late. My throat was blocked and heart was pounding violently.

My apartment bedroom was totally dark, thanks to my black out shades, so I didn't notice my vision fading, but I did see stars. I can't explain the feeling of suffocation, other than to say it is like a wild animal loose in your chest, trying to tear its way out--then, less so...then, less...then, darkness. At some point I thought, "there MUST be a way out of this! I CAN'T DIE!"

But I could, and I did.