I did not celebrate on New Year's eve. I would have, had I been here on that day, but I wasn't, so I didn't. Actually, the New Year came and went without me. I did not exist on that night in question.
Then how can I be here now, you may ask. It's a fairly logical question, under the circumstances. Am I a newborn babe that was not born until after New Year's Day? Of course not; babies cannot write, nor do they have the capability to dictate their stories to others to be written. Am I some creature from outer space, who only arrived after December 31st turned to January 1st? Rubbish; I'm as human as you (assuming that you ARE human, of course), but even if I was an alien, why ever would I want to come to this planet in the first place with so many other fine planets to choose from? Am I the inventer of the world's very first time machine, and was I simply living in another time when the clock struck midnight that night? Alas, no; I am hardly mechanically inclined enough to change a tire, much less invent a time machine. You can strain your brain seeking the answers to the mysterious question of my nonexistence, but those of you with the mere mind of a mortal would likely never guess it, although the answer is painfully simple.
As a matter of fact, I was perfectly and completely dead.
It came about rather suddenly. It wasn't as though I had planned to be dead for that night. Quite the opposite, actually. I was driving to a New Year's eve party at the home of a buddy of mine, and planned on living it up and likely becoming perfectly intoxicated before the night was through. Unfortunately for me, the person driving the car in the opposite lane had that same idea, only they had it first. The cars collided, my head smashed into the windshield when my airbag failed to deploy, and I lost consciousness. When I came to, I was dead.
I can tell what you're thinking. You're thinking that it can't possibly be true, because dead guys don't write stories and post them online or publish them in books. Actually, it can be, because it is. So there.
Believe me, I'm as confused as you are. I'm not sure how a dead guy could be writing this, either. I mean, c'mon, he's dead, right? So it only stands to reason, that I'm not dead anymore. I came back.
Maybe God took one look at me and decided that my time hadn't come yet. Maybe He decided to give me a second chance, like you see in so many of those cheesy old movies. Maybe I wasn't good enough for Heaven or bad enough for Hell, so God put me back on earth until He could make up His mind about what to do with me. Who knows? Whoever it is, they neglected to inform me about it.
But the fact remains, that I'm not dead anymore. And I can prove it. Dead people don't know how to count, and that's a fact. Just ask them to count to five. They won't do it, every time. I will. One, two, three, four, five. See? I can't be dead.
Dead people can't tell jokes, either. But I can. "What goes boing, thunk, boing, thunk, boing, thunk, splat? A frog with a wooden leg getting sat on by an elephant." Nope, I'm definitely not dead. Although I think the last audience to hear that joke might have been. The response did not vary much at the follow-up joke, either: "What do you call a frog with a wooden leg that was sat on by an elephant? A messy splinter."
I can also chew crackers and whistle "Dixie" while crossing my eyes, raising one eyebrow, wiggling my ears, ringing a bell, picking my nose, doing an Irish jig, and making farting sounds with both armpits simultaneously. Show me a dead guy who can do that. No, seriously, show me. I'd like to meet him. He sounds like one really interesting dude.
I am very thankful that I am not dead. I don't think I liked being dead very much, seeing as I can't remember it very well at all. If I had liked it, I'm certain that I'd have remembered it. But I'm alive now, and that's a different story. I'm happy to be alive. Life is a beautiful thing to have. I want to share the story of my return to the land of the living with everybody I meet. I tell it to random people in the supermarket or on the street. I would shout it from the rooftops, if I didn't think I might fall off. Those peaked roofs are killers.
When I told my friends that I wasn't dead anymore, they were as surprised as I was. They thought that such a miraculous return from the dead must have something to do with my marvelous brain willing it to be so. At least, I think that must have been what they thought; if not, then why would they send me to so many brilliant psychiatrists to analyze my mind?
The psychiatrists were amazed by my state of undeadness. So much so, that they moved me to a big building with white walls where they could better study me. I don't mind it so much at this new place. The people here are very friendly, although many of them are a bit off in the head, if you know what I'm saying. Poor, poor people. I suppose everybody can't have a magnificent mind like mine, though.
So, you see, I couldn't quite help that I missed the coming of the New Year. But to those of you who aren't dead, I congratulate you, and wish you a belated Very Happy New Year! And I suppose that I should wish Happy New Year to those of you who are dead, too. Having once been dead myself, I wouldn't want to hurt anybody's feelings by excluding them. And of course, to those of you who were alive, then died, and are alive again like myself, Happy New Year. And if anybody out there was alive, then died, was alive again, and subsequently died again, Happy New Year. And if there just so happens to be anybody reading this who was alive, then died, then was alive, then died, then was alive, Happy New Year. And if on the remote chance there is anybody out there who was alive, then died, then was alive, then died, then was alive, then died...
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