There was this one time I might have been close. No way of knowing, but it's cool, 'cause this obnoxiously fat, moody, smelly cat named Killer, kept jumping up on the bed I was in and rubbing against me all static-y and shocking me, which kept me conscious and aware of whether or not I was breathing. Fucker would not go away either. I'd throw her off the bed and she just kept jumping back up with her definite odor and newly acquired charge, which I don't know where she got, and all that fat. But I like being able to say that my life was once saved by a fat, moody, stuck up, air-polluting, static wielding, bitch of a cat named Killer, dislikeable in every way, and point out the couple different layers of irony in all of it.
Also when my doctor had just started me on clonazepam last summer, I did some H and OD'd, not thinking there would be nearly that much potentiation. Friend dragged me out of the bathroom and this bike cop showed up and summoned paramedics and an ambulance, and they all somehow decided that they could refuse my right to refuse an expensive, unwanted trip in an ambulance, based solely on the intervals between my breaths and the ones between my being conscious. My financial history's bad enough already, now I got a $1,000 bill gonna come in the mail which I'll probably end up burying in the backyard 'cause I'm not sure what else to do with it.