Coming Clean

I woke up at my own funeral—again. This is getting old.

Third time this month I woke up and saw myself lying dead in a coffin before hearing the priest pray over me at my funeral. I felt like I was a soap opera character, apparently getting killed over and over again.

I woke in a panic, then rubbed my face and sighed. Clearly these nightmares have to do with my bad habits. I declared then and there that I would clean up my act. No more

huffin' gas in the shed behind the Shell Station! I quit my job at Shell & decided to clean up my act. It wasn't easy. I found myself smelling all sorts of stuff—Sharpie markers, vents outside the hospital, expired cold cuts. I needed something else to fill the void—but what?

And then I figured it out! Isopropyl alcohol— I could keep cleaning up my act and clean my surroundings. I got a job as a sanitation worker in a lab, spraying and wiping down every surface I could reach. The fumes and the dopamine rush from cleaning worked just as well!

I cleaned until my skin cracked. Until my joints throbbed. Even the meat of my palms ached. But what did I care? I was saved. I spotted my reflection in a nearby monitor—hair in my face, sweat dripping from my brow. Clearly I was only making others clean but that was good enough.