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(note: this is the opening paragraph of my book)

I have lived a good life, I believe. My 37 years on this earth were well spent. If asked if I had any regrets, my immediate answer would be no.

Wouldn’t it?

I pause and run down a mental list of accomplishments in my life. It seems short. Graduated high school. Stunning work there, I thought wryly. Graduated college. No small miracle considering the frat house parties and weekend road trips that kept me from studying. Ran three marathons. Not too shabby. Got a job as a financial analyst, then moved to CFO in seven years at a Fortune 500 company. Okay, for that one I can fairly pat myself on the back, grin cockily, and order the outrageously expensive Bordeaux without flinching. But this is where I draw a blank. What came next? I didn’t propose to Sara like I should have. I never took that trip to Africa. I didn’t buy that perfect 1930’s bungalow, even when the price dropped. I didn’t hike Mt. Everest. Hell, I didn’t hike a single fourteener in Colorado like I said I would on various ski trips. Okay, so I have some regrets. The truth is, I have too much time to think. It’s quiet and dark here, and I’m comfortable and warm. And it seems that all I have is time. I have plenty of time to replay the film reel of my life and kick myself for having that horrible mullet in the 80’s. But I don’t mind this time for thinking, as long as this wonderful warmth stays around me. It feels like being wrapped in a feather bed, a bed of feathers, a feather burrito. Like when you are bundled up in the covers in wintertime except, even my nose sticking outside the covers is warm. The incessant beeping of the machines is my only complaint. Its annoying high pitch interferes with my reminiscing. I’m not sure, but I think I am in a coma.

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