Sick

For three days I was bedridden while my brain rebooted itself with the help of pharmaceuticals. I’m now convinced that Jesus had nothing to do with Lazarus 2.0. Glory be to Nyquil. Rewrite the bible. While dead I dreamt of world dominance. I was the tower of Babel and spoke fluently the language of the every man. I broke codes with my pillow talk. The ghost of Warren Zevon marveled at my perfectly coiffed hair. Dynasties cowered. Mothers wept at the foot of my robust ego. It was glorious. And at the end of my three dead days I awoke with the words of the newest testament teetering upon my pursed lips: I will never die.