What If We Come Back?

It might not be a walk in the park .

Photo by Alex Hockett on Unsplash

I hope the people who believe in reincarnation are wrong. I’d hate to think I had to start all over and do this again. That would really suck.

And I’ve always wondered how that would even make sense. How the heck are we supposed to do better if we can’t even remember what the hell we did wrong? If we’re supposed to learn and can’t remember the lesson, well, I say that’s bull.

While I was in the shower today I was thinking about a dreaded medical appointment I have to go to next month (yeah, I’m an anxious worrier) and wondering how many more unpleasant meet-ups with specialists and various “procedures” I’ll have to go through in my life. I hate doctors’ offices, hospitals, and especially dentist offices.

For some reason I suddenly thought about what a drag it would be to have to start all over in a new life after this one. I’d be unable to tell anyone what I wanted because I’d be a baby with no hope of gaining communication skills for months. Even if a diaper pin was sticking me all I could do is wail.

If there is reincarnation maybe that’s why babies can’t talk until they’re older — to give them time to forget about the life last lived — so they won’t tell anyone and ruin the surprise. Or so they won’t off themselves as soon as they‘re able and realize they have to do the whole damn thing again. If reincarnation is real I bet they forget before they can tell us.

But at first, I bet they remember. That’s why some babies look so alarmed when they arrive back here yet again after thinking they escaped. That’s why some are inconsolable. I bet it’s only the mean ole babies that are happy to be here. They want to even up the score with someone or they’re somehow up to no good. Why else would they want to come back here?

I mean, just imagine. You’re on your deathbed. You’re ready to doze off into oblivion. Your body hasn’t worked right for years. You can’t hear good, can’t see worth a shit, your joints all creak, you have to wear diapers and pee and poop on yourself. You’re worn out. You decided the whole life thing wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be years ago when you figured out nothing you did made a whole lot of difference.

Donald Trump was allowed to become president.

Right doesn’t always triumph. Bad guys don’t always get what’s coming to them. You can’t pray hard enough to make your football team win. Your cakes fall. You fall or fail or do well or not. All of it is just a crock; just like Shakespeare said, “sound and fury.” People here on earth are either delusional or depressed most of the time. And Donald Trump was allowed to become president.

You got the joke, but it wasn’t funny. So you are no longer entertained by the monkey antics of humans or the state of affairs of humanity. Your give a damn got broke and you don’t give a shit.

Time to check out. Ah, oblivion. Sweet rest. Peace at last. Goodbye sports fans. Goodnight Mrs. Calabash.

And then, what the hell? You’re sliding out a dark tunnel and medical types — them, again? — are poking at your orffices and wallowing you this way and that. You’re still pooping and peeing yourself except this time they think it’s cute. “Baby make a poopoo for dada.”

Oh! What fresh hell is this? Not this again! Oh hell no, this is where I came in. I’m leaving! But no. They’re making you fill your little lungs.

No wonder babies cry all the time.

And you wish you hadn’t been hot for somebody else’s spouse or killed so many cockroaches; or whatever you did that meant you’d have to come back for a do-over. No wonder babies cry all the time.

Some people who believe in reincarnation think it’s all just hunky dorry. You wear out your body, you check out, then you get a new one and start all over again.

They think that’s wonderful. They must have had an easier time of it than I did. Oh please, Lady Karma or whoever you are, at least let me remember not to get married and not to have kids! Please, Mr. Karma? Buddha? Just let me remember to skip the parenting part. That almost killed me. I mean, killed me before I was ready.

I don’t wanna’ suck no tittie!

Somebody’s giving me some milk to drink in a bottle! YAAY! At least I’m not going to have to suck on somebody’s ole boob to get food!

What? This is just a supplemental feeding, I hear someone say, because the mother doesn’t have enough milk. Blah, retch, here’s some fresh spit up for you! Thats what I think of that! I’m a girl. A heterosexual woman. I don’t wanna’ suck no tittie! I want a beer. Get me a Schlitz. At least let me have a Pepsi. And I need a cigarette! I’m a grown-ass woman.

Or am I? Wait! Do I have a dingaling?


I have a penis. They’ve made me come back as a boy and they’re probably going to whack off my foreskin any time now!

Hey! That’s my skin! They’re going to cut off a piece of my freakin’ skin! Oh shit. Who thought up this whole reincarnation thing, anyway?

I’m sorry I stayed pissed off at men most of my life. Oh, come on. For heavens sake. Dont make me be a guy!

And my troubles would be just beginning. Do you have any idea how many people abuse their kids?

I do. I worked in the news media all my (other) life. Chances are, even if these parents I’ve been given to turn out to be ok people, someone else will hurt me somehow before I get big enough to defend myself. Boy, I hope we’re not Catholic.

I hope we aren’t poor. The Republicans are trying to starve out poor people. I might not get enough food. I love food! I won’t get food for months anyway. Just this old watery milk. Blah. I’ll spit up a lot, just to show them what I think about it. I want a cheeseburger.

He’s my brand new daddy…

Wait, is that a red hat that guy is wearing? Is he my dad? No! Mr. Karma, no. I know I hated Trump supporters. No, wait, I didn’t hate them — not really — I just disagreed. Don’t do this to me.

Yep. He’s wearing a MAGA hat and he’s my brand new daddy. We’re going to starve. He’s going to teach me the world is two or three thousand years old, tops, and how to hate gay people and black people and anyone not ‘Murican. I’m going to be a half-starved ignorant redneck. With a penis, for crying out loud.

So, yeah. I was thinking about this stuff while I was in the shower. I really hope the millions who believe in reincarnation are wrong. It would be awful. And then I’d eventually get old again and get diseased and frail and have to go through all that and finally die again.

Then do it all over again? How many times would it be until I reached that — what do you call it — nirvana? I never was much good at being good and following the rules and all that. My luck I’d be going in and out for… I don’t know? Eternity?

Oh just kill me now.

No, don’t. Lord knows what would happen. I might come back a ghetto kid. Or a Kurd.

Reincarnation wouldn’t be all it’s cracked up to be if you ask me. Nobody asked me. But I was just thinking in the shower. You know?

Former print journalist, former mayor, retired law enforcement officer. Writing about politics and government along with random personal essays.

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