I decided to go for a run. Maybe, because I needed to shed a few pounds. Maybe, because I wanted to tempt fate and test my middle-aged heart. Regardless of the reason, on that run, I recieved a sign. Now, I’m not saying it was from God… but yeah, it was probably God.
I was about two miles into that dreaded form of exercise, and all of the rattling and gasping, was loosening up the crusty stuff inside of me.
Suddenly, I had to spit. And it was a particularly juicy goober. Apparently, a bone fragment had made its way from one of my shins to the back of my throat.
Steely-eyed, with my luscious hair blowing in the wind, my impossibly square jaw set in determination, and my muscles rippling (I’m on a roll, don’t judge me) I forged on toward home.
While doing so, I coughed up the morsel and spit it out.
Now this is where the sign comes in, so pay close attention. The celestial-goober launched itself from my mouth, but instead of falling onto the pavement a few feet ahead of me, it floated in the air at eye-level. Held either by the wind or the hand of God… but we all know the wind is God. So, yeah, it was God.
After floating in front of me for a long moment, it was quickly returned to my face with a splat. At that point, I stopped running.
Now, how to interpret this supernatural act, is the piece of the puzzle that still remains a mystery.
Did having to stop my run in disgust, and wiping away my own awfulness, prevent my heart from exploding?
In this scenario, the jolly bearded guy upstairs was sending me good vibes and a thumbs up. And that’s good, I think.
OR, was it that some cosmic prankster elbowed his buddy, and said “Hey god-bro, check this out.” and then slapped me with my own slime. Then they probably chuckled and exchanged a fist bump, as my muffled curses passed under their fraternity of clouds.
In this scenario, the afterlife is not looking too good, for yours truly. An eternal pledge for some cosmic frat, where they diddle and humiliate you. Jesus… That’s some dark shit right there.
I don’t know, man. I just don’t know. That’s the thing about signs. They’re open to interpretation. And that leads you down some treacherous philosophical roads. The kind where you need to determine how full glasses are. And nobody has the patience for that.
Bottom line. I spit in my own face… but it wasn’t my fault, like at all.
It was and act of god. And he or she (calm down) is a mysterious being, whose intent is beyond our mortal comprehension. But the most important thing to know is: If you, or any of your friends, talk to the lady that was walking her dog (Off of 22nd and Hampton), I DID NOT spit in my own face. It was way more complicated than that.
And she’s a goddamn liar.
Nik Was Here 