Sixteen years ago, I was in a massive car accident that killed me, which didn't take, and crippled me for life, which, unfortunately, did. I've officially spent half my life with this pain as a constant companion and, while, of course, I would love to be free of it, I made the choice a long time ago (not immediately, no one does that, despite what they may say) to not allow it to consume me.
Spending my senior year in high school in a wheelchair, I wasn't so enlightened as that on the first anniversary. My friends at the time decided, then, to throw me a party in order to keep my spirit's up. It worked. I've still got a flyer for the first annual Zach's Dead Day party somewhere. I was never able to tell them how much it meant, because you don't think to, when you're that age. I'm grateful, though, because it was a large part of how I began to come to terms with things. So I'll just put my gratitude out there into the ether and hope that it finds them somehow.
All that being said, Happy Zach's Dead Day!
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