I don't try to die anymore, and I thought my mother would appreciate that. She's still hung up on hoping I come to know Jesus before i do die, whenever that is. What she doesn't understand is that I know Jesus well. I was Jesus. I remember the faces of the centurions in my mind as they drove sharp objects through my wrist to atone for the sins of my abuser. I remember the days entombed, when I wallowed in the darkness with festering wounds. I remember the ressurection, when the angels removed my ******* and brought me once more into the light. I suppose she has a right to worry, though. I could get in to a car accident or something.