Running out of Time: The Nine Lives of Remy Carreiro
A cat has recently come into my life, by the name of Neferatu (a fine mix between princess Nefertiti and classic vampire, Nosferatu) and everything this cat does intrigues me. But in the short time I have spent with her, I can already understand where the “nine lives” myth comes from for cats. Cats are constantly doing curious, (some could say stupid) things that SHOULD spell their demise, but inexplicably, often don’t. Thing is, so do we. Humans are the exact same way. Take any story of a skydiver dying as a perfect example of this. Some may do it consciously and some may do it subconsciously, but regardless, we all do (or have done) stupid shit that should have ended our lives but miraculously did not manage to. We take those miracles for granted and breeze right past them. But not me. I know in the next month I am going to write a piece about waterboarding, and in doing so, have chosen to experience it before I write anything. In realizing this may kill me if done wrong, it got me thinking. How many of MY nine lives have I already used up doing stupid shit like this?
Come to find out, all of them. Pre-waterboarding, no less.
*Gulps for air
These are those nine lives, in order….
No one knows how I did it, but at 1 years old, I managed to shove an entire Zweibeck (cock shaped) cookie into my mouth and down my throat (and sadly, did not turn out gay, which is a shame because apparently from birth I can suck a mean c*ck). My Mom finds me, doesn’t know what to do, runs her blue baby upstairs where my Dad was working on art. Dad scoops two fingers down my throat and smacks my back, at which point a cock shaped cookie shot, still fully formed, out of my mouth and across the room.
They said the sigh I let out was terrifying. Like a final breath, as if I were that close to death.
That was life one.
I was just getting started. That was some minor league shit. I went hardcore fast.
So back when my family was still a family (many, MANY moons ago) we would take vacations in Maine. Nice little cabin right on a pond. At this point, I was a little older (maybe 5 or 6 years old). I had a bubble attached to my back (massive piece of styrofoam strapped to a young child so they cannot drown) and I noticed my whole family went into an overturned canoe to talk. Their echoes called to me, and my curiosity peaked so I tried to get under the canoe. A “bubble” cannot go underwater, but it most certainly can hook onto the side of a boat when you try to dunk yourself, and can then keep you submerged if you are half under already.
Picture this. Half under canoe, stuck. I can clearly recall the light fading and me getting frantic as my breath left my body and I began to convulse.
This moment my dad (the hero of half these stories) saw me and pulled me from under the boat with a quickness. Again, blue face and fighting to breathe.
That was life two.
This is when the blame starts shifting fully to me and the deaths get weirder and more, um, death-like. I will accept the fact that the kid I am talking about here was clearly slow. He had to be. I also know he learned from this because I am him. And yes, you are about to read one of the stupidest things ever, and I have never told anyone about it until now for that exact reason.
2nd Grade. I am listening to my Thriller cassette (for people who don’t know, in the old days we used these things called cassettes to listen to music, pre MP3) and I noticed my cassette player was sounding static and shitty. At this point, I had Nintendo knowledge (which means, blow on something that doesn’t work) so what did I do? Something far worse.
I meant to unplug the stereo from wall and blow on it, but I unplugged the casette player from stereo (while it was plugged DIRECTLY into the wall) and, well, put it in my mouth to clean it.
Still unsure to this day how many volts I took, but I remember coming to in my childhood bedroom, still twitching, hand to God. How I was not fully electrocuted I will never know, but that was life three.
Dumbass. I would take a time machine just so I could smack that retard, as hitting myself now will not hold the same emotional impact.
Head on Collision (Face Smashed Into Windshield)
I got a nice little lull between the electrocution and the face smashing of about ten years or so, and that was pleasant. But the following story could be a book in and of itself. Lock down, this is where shit gets really good.
So me and 3 of my good high school friends at the time were tripping our balls off (a fact I hide from no one about my life) walking around the neighborhood I grew up in (Plymouth, Ma) and a girl we went to school with pulls up and is like: you guys fucked up? You wanna go for a ride somewhere? So we were stoked and like: fuck yeah! I, of course, jumped in the front seat like an alpha asshole and we were off, my other buddies sitting in the back.
Now most of what happened next is a blur, but in trying to impress us and/or bug us out, she drove head on into a tree going at least 30. No joke. She was trying to just drive a little crazy on a dirt road called Ship Pond Road, but the road is FAMOUS for being one of the shittiest roads in the state. It’s covered in dirt, so she lost control. I was tripping so hard I did not protect myself and smashed my face into the windshield and broke it WITH MY FACE.
I bit through my lower lip, blacked out, and eventually came to, and crawled away from the accident when I heard sirens because I had 75 hits of LSD on me. White blotter to be exact. I got up and ended up walking miles home, bleeding. No one even knew it ever happened (outside of those of us who experienced it). I was the one most physically hurt from accident, no deaths thankfully.
That was life four, and no, we never talked to that bitch again.
Fuck you, Jamie.
I don’t even like talking about this one. About the same age as above, maybe a year older. I’m at the beach with my girlfriend’s family, and we are just doing the beach thang for the day. I was always a weird stoner kid, so instead of doing beach things, I decide to see how deep I can dig a hole. Yes, lame, I know. This whole list reeks of “special needs kid”, no offense to any actual special needs kids.
So I get down on my side and start digging with one arm. I get to the point where the hole I am digging is as deep as my arm will go. I would say about four feet, to the point where I have hit water. I lower myself down on my side even further and reach way, deep down in the hole to keep digging with one arm. This is when the worst thing ever happens and my relationship with PTSD truly begins. The wall I am leaning in on to dig gives way, and I tumble forward. So hard, in fact, that I tumble into the hole and my legs go over my head. I scream but land straight down, open mouth in the sand and the sand above starts filling in as all the walls on all sides cave in.
I know for a fact you have never been in a hole, upside down and face down while sand fills it in, but it is exactly as fucking awful as it sounds. And as I try to grab the sides, they just cave in more. I am drowning, swallowing sand, it is in my eyes and nose and mouth and I am suffering a death that no human deserves. I dug my own fucking grave and then fell into it. I can talk about any of these other instances openly, but for some reason, this one still makes me tremble. Writing about it has my flesh awash in goosebumps.
Long story short, seconds before my own death I feel two hands wrap around my own exposed ankles and begin pulling.
It was my girlfriend’s dad. He saw my feet sticking out and saved my fucking life.
I sent the dude cards for weeks, no joke. That was a moment that is exactly as scary as you would imagine, and I had, again, dug my own grave, making the whole thing even more fucked up.
That was life five.
Yeah, four more. My life has been pretty fucked to be honest.
Well, to take some impact off it, this wasn’t my fault (though it kinda was). One of the “drug death” stories is told here, but I can give you a different one for this list. Same point in my life (right after best friend’s suicide by fire, I was in a self imposed downward spiral) and was taking what is now known as Molly but was referred to as X or Ecstasy back then. I took the stuff by the handful, and in doing so, you often didn’t know what you were really buying.
Had an X party at one of my friend’s houses and everyone was fucked up, but I took it too far. I ate one too many of these pills and suddenly, the room dimmed and I was pouring sweat and could not stand. My speech was slurred, and I felt like I was having a stroke. The shittiest part is, I probably just needed some electrolytes and an IV and I woulda been fine, but my “drug friends” walked me to my buddy’s room and just put me into bed because they were scared they would get arrested. I am dying, pretty much sweating out and shitting this kid’s bed, and I can HEAR everyone, outside the shut door, still partying. A surreal and dark highlight of my life, for sure.
One fucking person checked on me once that entire night, and I was convinced I was dying.
Thanks for that, Melissa.
Suffice it to say, was no longer in need of these kind of friends after that, and when I did manage to finally get up and walk away a day later, I never looked back.
That was life six.
Told you I shouldn’t be alive…and it gets worse.
The Stab Not Heard Round the World
I don’t talk much about this to anyone. Why? Something weird happens when someone tries to kill you. You don’t brag or tell people. Why? Because it scares people and is hard for them to understand and fathom. It is also scary and weird to relive every time you tell, so you just don’t. Now, I cannot say this guy was trying to kill me, and I won’t go into details because snitches get stitches, but I have a scar up my left arm that was made by a broken bottle, and is about 6 inches long. This happened during a night of drinking and drugging in Boston. The only thing I will tell you is, I experienced an insane foreshadowing and an angel saved my life. Hear me out.
While at the bar on Lansdowne street where I would be “shanked”, I was standing there tripping my face off and felt something hit my foot. I looked down and it was the top of the broken Bud bottle that five minutes later, would tear open my arm. Odd thing is, when it hit my foot, I knew, and I stayed. That was my mistake. And I will say this, to the dude who kicked open the emergency exit and called me over to it that night and then shut himself inside the disaster after, I still think about you every day. I have convinced myself you weren’t even real. But somehow, you got me out, and I love you for it. A true hero to me. An angel? I won’t come out and say it because I scoff at that kind of shit. But if they exist, that dude was one.
That was life seven.
And I got a sexy scar from that one so worth it.
Now onto a not-so-sexy scar….
A great many people have asked me what the predicate for this story was. Well, this is it. I slashed my own throat in act of desperation at 28 years old. Why, you ask? Well, read the list up to here to get an idea. My life has by no means been blessed. Add to that the fact that, I was in a very abusive relationship that was breaking me, my best friend and my Godfather had both just taken their lives years prior, my own relationship with my family was strained, and I was beyond the point of exhaustion. What more do you need?
So one day I just ran a razor blade across my throat without even looking. I only got startled when I felt my shirt, cold and soaked, ten minutes later. At that point I looked down and panicked slightly when I saw my shirt was almost fully red. No words for what that moment felt like, but hey, I did it to myself (and clearly survived it, somehow).
More details on that story to come, rest assured.
Suffice it to say, THAT was life eight.
One left, and boy is it a doozy….
The Halloween Quarantine
The crazy thing about writing this list is the realization how exceptional I am. What I mean by exceptional in this particular case is, how many people can claim they have experienced as wide an array of madness in their lives as I have? Not bragging, I would trade for a normal life in a second, but mine is pretty exceptional. I know so many people have fucked up lives, but you look at this list and it almost looks like a work of insane fiction. But I have sources and paperwork to back up every single incident. This has been my life, and no moment was more insane than my random and inexplicable near death mystery illness which led to a 7 day quarantine after which I was released with no explanation and still sick because my insurance (which I no longer have) was ultimately saying, and I kid you not, if you can’t name his disease, he doesn’t have one and we are no longer paying (thanks for that, Blue Cross Blue Shield. That was so professional of you). I said that last sentence all in one breath. Impressive, huh?
Anyway, long story short, at work with a bunch of special needs kids and I start spewing blood out of all my holes (asshole, mouth, and so on). I am sent home (had to drive myself. HAHAHAHA, my life has been a fucking movie) and I bring myself to St. Anne’s in Fall River, Ma, which was closest to my work at the time. They see I am essentially the movie Outbreak. My skin is damp and gray, my white cell count is off the charts (which to those who don’t know, is VERY bad) and I can’t keep food in or move or speak. So what do they do?
Well, they bring in specialists and no one knows what is wrong, so they quarantine me. On Halloween. With AMC playing “The 100 Most Disturbing Moments in Film” on the TV in my quarantine room. I will never forget the “you coming to the Halloween party” text and me responding “can’t, literally dying.” You know you are dying when they let you keep your phone on you so you can make peace with everyone. Anyway, they never figured out what was killing me and eventually sent me home to die. As you see, I didn’t die. And that, my good friends, was life nine.
The scariest part is, I haven’t even got to the other choking incident yet or the van accident or the special needs kid who threw me over a bench and almost broke my spine, landing me in physical therapy for a year. So if we do have nine lives, I am at fourteen. Take that, irrational cat science.
How fucking hardcore is that?
14 deaths and still going. Think I am gonna play it safe and try to slow things down for awhile now. Right AFTER I get waterboarded, that is.