“You alright?” asks the cop.

I try again. It’s harder and harder to breath. My chest.

“I can’t breathe. My sternum. It’s bursting out of my chest.” I lean on his car.

“Whoa there, fella, I just got it washed.”

“Please. Help me.”

The cop laughs. “Looks like you’re dying.” He stretches his arms back with a yawn, then straightens his hat. “Time for me go.”

“No.” Another gasp.

Usually, it was minor things at the mouth of the road. Collisions into the guardrail that mussed up a front fender and little else. The loud squeak of breaks and the cloud of white steam from burnt tire rubber and then maybe voices in dissent. Never the need for an ambulance.

I miss walking over to a neighborhood bar and the bartender recognizes me because I am a regular and have been there lots of times before and they’re happy to see me and we chat a little and I get a drink because sometimes it’s fun to get a drink and talk and laugh…

I’m in Cancun, Mexico with Dana as you read this. Which means I can’t grab you for coffee or a sandwich right now. Because I’m lounging in the sand with the most most wonderful human being in the known universe.

That said, when we get back, expect an invitation to spend some time. In person. Like humans are supposed to do.

We sent her down to the front side walk, which was a little tricky to get to, I admit. We were hoping for pictures of all the birthday party attendees wrapped around and hanging off the railings. It took her a very long time to hit bottom. She kept stopping and yelling “Am I there yet?” 

If the experience of life has taught me anything, it has taught me that people like staying alive. Somewhere in the very essence of what it is to be alive is that special feeling that philosophers call “qualia of consciousness." Being alive feels like something. Here we are, inside our little meatboxes, looking out at all the other meatboxes and we know they’re feeling like they’re alive too. Most all of us like being alive. At the most primitive level, we hate that we won’t be alive at some point. The fear of not being alive anymore is huge. We don’t want to die.

The heat was impressive, a near 1,700 degrees. He pushed Leroy into the oven. Before Leroy was halfway in, his feet burst into flames. Black smoke from the cardboard rose up the flue. Three more shoves and Leroy was in, his entire body now consumed with flames.

By 2012, just eight years after the platform was launched, 30 million users with Facebook accounts had died. That number has only gone up since. Some estimates claim more than 10,000 users die each day.

Let that sink in for a second.

I don't know if this fact unnerves you but it sure as hell gives me a moment of pause.