I have been tormented for the past several months by a cloying fear that I will, without warning, pitch over and literally die of ennui. Such a death would not be unprecedented, and I figure that if there is one person in the world it could happen to, it would be me. Imagine my surprise, then, at two recent brushes with death that had nothing to do with ennui whatsoever. (This is my narrative, and I can couch it in whatever terms I want.)
ALEXANDER NEARLY DROWNS, OR MIGHT HAVE CAUGHT A CHILL OR SOMETHING
As I want to have my teeth checked whilst I still have amazing insurance, I was forced to navigate the bureaucratic death-trap that is the French healthcare system. I’ll spare you all the specifcs (though I’ve since resolved to carry an RIB with me at all times, since you can’t so much as use a public restroom in France without presenting one), but I will recount the second time I visited the insurance office.
The office is way, way on the other side of town, in an area I never visit. The first time I went, I caught a ride with a post office van (different story). But I didn’t have my Carnet de Famille or something, so I had to go back again, but this time I had to walk. So I set off one hot sunny morning to trek the several miles to the office. I had to be back at school by 2pm for a class, so I was in a hurry, and grumpy because I had eaten an unsatisfying meal in a rush to give myself enough time to run my goddamn errand. But as I tramped on down the hills in the hot sun, I realized with a mounting dread that, when I arrived, the offices would probably be closed. (1) It was a Monday, and French offices are sometimes closed on Mondays (2) I would arrive 12:30ish, smack-dab in the middle of the excessive French lunch break.
Despite my increasing teleological despair, and the growing certainty that my effort would be futile, I kept schlepping. And as I walked, I was thinking “My life right at this moment is something right out of the type of short story people don’t write anymore.” So I started musing how the story would end if written by writers of different nationalities. Russian: I would arrive at the office, and it would be open, but I would be shot for no good reason. American: I would behold the closed office with my wind-scoured face, battered but not broken (I would always have the land). I think I had an English one too, but I’ve forgotten it now.
Anyway, I take the wrong road and see that the office complex is on the other side of a long field. So I cross the field to discover what I thought was a ditch is actually the Ill River. There are no bridges within sight, and I am literally across the river from the office complex, so I wade across!! How zany, right? Me and my friends have so much random fun! Except that the Ill was colder, faster, deeper, rockier and more slippery than I thought it would be, and I nearly fell over about half a dozen times. Doing so would have ruined all the paperwork in my backpack, thwarting my plans indefinitely, but whatever: live fast, die pretty. It also caused me to hallucinate a long-dead lover, not that that’s any of your business.
Anyway, I wait for my feet to dry, put my shoes back on, and go to the office, and the story ended up having a French ending after all: I was told that I still couldn’t sign up because I hadn’t brought an RIB, even though I had specifically asked if I needed an RIB the last time and I had been assured twice over it was not necessary.
OKAY THAT WASN’T TOO INTERESTING BUT THIS ONE IS ACTUALLY KIND OF FRIGHTENING
Growing up I thought I just didn’t like shrimp, but toward late high school and college I realized the unpleasant sensation I felt in my mouth wasn’t a bad taste but discomfort: my palate started itching, and my throat, while not swelling, became kind of flabby-feeling.
Neither of these are the worst things in the world, and I used to eat shrimp dishes if I thought it would be rude to refuse. (Oh thanks for cooking this wonderful food but I may or may not be kind of allergic to shrimp so why don’t you just throw it all into the trash can.)
The last time that happened was three years ago, and my mouth itched a bit. So a little while ago I was in Mulhouse at an assistant party, and there was shrimp scampi. Boy was I hungry, so I picked out the shrimp and ate the pasta. Aaaaaaaand my throat swoll so much that I had trouble breathing (not major, but still). When I talked I sounded roughly the way people do when they’ve had all four quadrants anesthetized at the dentist’s.
Don’t worry guys though I totally drank some tea and recovered! NICE TRY ANGELS
But Alex we only wanted to show you Heaven
God damn you Angels, I don’t want to see heaven
Oh no, it’s such a beautiful place, we just know you’d love it
What menaces you are, what jackals! Leave me be!
It’s the most beautiful place imaginable. Wouldn’t you like to see it, only for a few seconds? Just a few short seconds, and we’d bring you back, we promise
No Angels, I know your tricks!
You are too precious and too beautiful for this world, Alex. Come with us to heaven. Warm our cold wings with your brisk hands.
Gross, Angels!
EAT THE SCAMPI
[Also I’m from Bayou La Batre, Alabama. From Bayou la Batre and allergic to shrimp. What a world this is, right?]
Came to my senses & I chilled for a bit 
