Please Kill Me

Rare is the approaching subway that doesn’t make me wonder, just for a second, what would feel like to be run over?

It’s not that I have a death wish. Not at all. It’s just that there’s a rogue crazy that pushes the random straphanger onto the rails once and a while. So I think most of us brace ourselves when the trains come roaring into the station. Just in case.

In fact, I’d flirted just a little bit with the young woman that was pushed in front of an NR about five years ago. She was the receptionist at Masterdisk, where I mastered ‘The Deluxe EP’ (aka ‘The Jackie Chan EP’). We only spoke a few times on the phone, and when I dropped off and picked up the masters. I don’t remember her name, but I can see her blonde hair and smile with my eyes open.

No, I don’t want to die. Though it might be good for my music career. Nah, I really like life. I’m pretty optimistic. I like waking up in the morning. I rarely dread stepping out of bed. I like sunrise and sunset in equal measure. I pretty much figure every day’s another shot at doing a little better than the day before.

But I don’t want to live forever either. Kevin and I were discussing eternal life the other night in the studio, primarily because one of the songs on my new record is called ‘Live Forever.’ In contrast to Noel Gallagher (who inspired the song), I don’t want to live forever. Kev and I agreed that, without a beginning, middle, and end, there is no story arc. And so what would you be living for? Who cares if you matured, or became a better man, or ever learned something — anything! — you have all the time in the world.

That’s not to say that I wouldn’t mind killing off aspects of myself. If only it were so. That worrisome voice in my head? Dead. The “I love to be loved” little kid? See ya’. The addict? Gone.

If only it were that easy.

I’m moving next Thursday. Not far. Twenty-five blocks, to be exact. But I’m leaving some things behind. Like that awful futon in the living room. And that dining room table that my legs don’t really fit under. And that big vase behind that I use as a mini-dumpster. Dead. See ya’. Gone.

But I guess I expect something of me to stay here too. I’ve lived in this apartment for ten years, longer than any one residence in my life. I’ve don a lot of shit here, good and bad, smart and stupid. And for someone who hasn’t moved in ten years, I’ve come a long, long way. And I’ve loved every finite instant of the trip.

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