I’ve never been more acutely aware of my own mortality as I was just now, riding a bicycle home during a thunderstorm. The battery in my rear light had died so cars couldn’t see me; my glasses kept fogging up so I couldn’t see anything through the pitch-black darkness of the night. My feet kept slipping off the pedals as I rode under a canopy of ancient oak trees. A steady stream of lightning struck from above, lighting up the whole sky. Buckets of water poured over my whole body, soaking me to the skin, baptising me as I seemingly rode for my life. February fireworks banging out in the background to aid me in imagining that I’m fleeing from a warzone in a small country town. I scream the whole way home, a steady array of exclamations like ‘WHY ME?!’ and ‘FUCK YOU BELINDA CARLISLE, THIS ISN’T EVEN SUMMER RAIN’ and the more common occurrence of ‘ughhhghghrWHAAAAATooohhhhhyuckkkGROSSSWHAAAAAAT’, prompting two gentlemen passersby to yell out, ‘Should we save her?’ and me screaming back, ‘NEVER! I CAN SAVE MYSELF!’
Suffice to say I am still alive.
This is a true story.