On My Deathbed

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Abstract

1bc">In high school, there was a girl I thought was hot, and I wanted to ask her out, I should have, but didn’t. I thought she would have laughed if I did. Why? In junior high, at dances, I would ask a girl to dance to a slow song, and she’d say no, but not just saying no. She looked like she was laughing. Was she really? Maybe, maybe not. But just because something is done to you, doesn’t mean it’s about you. A lesson learned too late.I think about her now and wonder, what if I had made the move, would I have gotten my happy-ever-after?I wanted so much to be a musician and a writer — whoever put a guitar around their neck or picked up a drumstick didn’t have the dream of being a star of whatever genre they loved? And what writer didn’t have dreams of being the next Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Clive Cussler, or insert the name of any rich and famous author whose books sold millions

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and were turned into movies?But my music practice was loud, and people complained, so I didn’t practice enough. And when I formed a band, we spent as much, well no more time smoking dope — that’s rock ‘n roll, isn’t it? — as we did working on our music. Nor did we do much to get any gigs to play live, even though every musician who ever achieved anything at all did everything possible to play their music live — from Mozart to Metallica, that transcends every genre of music for five hundred years.I told myself that I wanted to get my story perfect before submitting it to any agent or publisher. But now I know I just didn’t have the courage to face rejection.Now on my deathbed, my last act was to kick myself for everything, I should have cried out for everything I ever might have wanted, and maybe I would have lived the life I was meant to live.</article></body>

A short story for your enjoyment

It would have been good if I could have had somebody to lean on when I wasn’t strong, which was often. Like the song said, “We all need somebody to lean on.”

But for me, there never was. At least that’s how it felt. I had a little, or no, a lot of resentment towards those people who got to have their happy-ever-after. If we all deserve it, why couldn’t I ever have mine?

Now laying here on my deathbed, I recognized my mistakes.

In high school, there was a girl I thought was hot, and I wanted to ask her out, I should have, but didn’t. I thought she would have laughed if I did. Why? In junior high, at dances, I would ask a girl to dance to a slow song, and she’d say no, but not just saying no. She looked like she was laughing. Was she really? Maybe, maybe not. But just because something is done to you, doesn’t mean it’s about you. A lesson learned too late.

I think about her now and wonder, what if I had made the move, would I have gotten my happy-ever-after?

I wanted so much to be a musician and a writer — whoever put a guitar around their neck or picked up a drumstick didn’t have the dream of being a star of whatever genre they loved? And what writer didn’t have dreams of being the next Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Clive Cussler, or insert the name of any rich and famous author whose books sold millions and were turned into movies?

But my music practice was loud, and people complained, so I didn’t practice enough. And when I formed a band, we spent as much, well no more time smoking dope — that’s rock ‘n roll, isn’t it? — as we did working on our music. Nor did we do much to get any gigs to play live, even though every musician who ever achieved anything at all did everything possible to play their music live — from Mozart to Metallica, that transcends every genre of music for five hundred years.

I told myself that I wanted to get my story perfect before submitting it to any agent or publisher. But now I know I just didn’t have the courage to face rejection.

Now on my deathbed, my last act was to kick myself for everything, I should have cried out for everything I ever might have wanted, and maybe I would have lived the life I was meant to live.