Too Many Deads On The Dance Floor

(NOTE: Based on time elapsed since the posting of this entry, the BS-o-meter calculates this is 7.236% likely to be something that Ferrett now regrets.)

“Most guys your age don’t survive this,” Gini told me.  “They miss the warning signs, and so that first heart attack is fatal.  You did the right thing.  Gold star.”
Still.  I had a hot date that night, at a club I was very eager to go to, to try a new technique with fire that I hadn’t used before.  I was bored in the hospital for six hours before the tests started returning positive results for heart troubles.  I was, in fact, already trying to check myself out, and grudgingly agreed for one more blood test – the test that showed the actual danger.  It’s all too easy to contemplate an alternate future where I checked out early, went to the club, and in the excitement had something deadly happen.
Between that and my exploded appendix – you may recall I walked around for at least three days with a fully burst organ, leaking toxins into my system – there are too many of my potential pasts that lead to dead Ferretts.  This is more than a little unsettling.
It feels, quite frankly, a little magical.
 

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