A few years ago, while in Brazil, I almost died in a plane crash.  I say this without truly knowing if I’d have died….I mean, I’ve seen or heard of people who have lived through some tremendous experiences.  I mean, I didn’t take a bunch of bullets to the face and body like Curtis Jackson (50 cent), and no, I didn’t do a Kanye West and damn near kill myself behind the wheel.  However, diving toward the earth in a fuel filled airplane full of passengers smelling of burning plastic  typically sounds like the catalyst behind a number of future funerals, and at the time, mine would have been included.  Miraculously though, the flight landed, and my random thoughts live on for your enjoyment.  Congratulations.

The crazy part of that whole experience is what it did to me.  I’m not talking about the blank stare of post-fear that slapped my ass in the face once reality hit me while sitting in the airport lobby afterwards.  I’m not even referring to the mental collapse that left me blubbering and crying in the bathroom, following the biggest early morning drinking session I’ve ever had in my life (its a long story, but I am now a HUGE fan of those mini bottles they have on airplanes….and United Airline flight attendants).  A battle ensued inside of me, where the arrogance of feeling like I cheated death clashed with my believing I was blessed enough to have avoided death cheating me, and the result has left me lost between two thoughts.  Thought 1- If God felt like it was necessary to allow me to survive what some would have though to have been an undeniable path to death, what then am I supposed to be doing with my life?  Thought 2 - If I’m able to survive something like this because death is something I’m not to worry about, what then should I do with this life of mine?

Obviously both sides of the war came to the same result which only left me with more questions.  What the hell should I be doing now?  Is there some calling that I’m not hearing?  Some task that God has for me to accomplish and I didn’t get the memo?  Then I began to believe that maybe….just maybe….it wasn’t me.  Maybe I was a bi-product of some divine intervention that was brought about to save the life of someone else on the plane, and I just got lucky.  Maybe things aren’t always about me.

Then I thought to myself…no…then I REALIZED……fuck that….this is MY story, so its undeniably always going to be about me.  That means, I got shit to do.