I’m Not Dead: As Far As We Know

The news of my death came from Frankfort, Kentucky.

“…I read recently that Sean Dietrich is dead and his wife is publishing posts to keep his memory alive,” the email read. “Is this true, have I missed Sean’s funeral? Any help on this matter is appreciated.”

The first thing I did after receiving this message was check my pulse. Then I went to the bathroom mirror. Admittedly, I’m not the nicest-looking guy in the trailer park, but I can still fog up a mirror.

Sort of.

Even so, this is a prime example of why you can’t trust all information from the internet. I did a few Google searches to see what else the internet said about me.

It was astounding. One of the search results said: “How much is Sean Dietrich’s net worth?”

I was curious to learn more on this matter, so I clicked the link. The website first offered to sell me male hormonal enhancement pills, then it offered to help me lose up to 30 pounds of belly fat. Then it said I was worth $512 million.

After I finished laughing so hard my gums bled, I went to tell my wife the good news.

“The internet says we’re worth $512 million,” I said.

“Really?”

“Yes. Apparently we’re rich.”

“Well, then hurry and pack your bags,” she said.

“Why? Where are we going?”

“I don’t care where you go, just get out of my house.”

Suffice it to say, I am not worth $512 million. Namely, because I make my living as a musician and writer. And it is a well-known fact that the only way to make a small fortune as a writer is to start off with a large fortune.

Writing is not an easy gig. In writing circles, all professional writers with health insurance are defined as “married.”

Being a musician is even harder than being a writer. If I were going to give struggling musicians some advice about their careers, I would tell them that adding water to a bottle of ketchup will make it last longer.

Something else the internet told me was that I was born in Canada. Also false.

I have never even been to Canada. Although I do have several Canadian friends. Sometimes when I forget which of my friends is Canadian I start bumping into people until one of them apologizes.

Sadly, no matter what the internet says about me, the true biographical facts are not glamorous. I drive a 25-year-old truck. I’ve had one back surgery. I have crooked teeth. And once, I worked in a pet shop; all the customers kept asking how big I’d get.

I do not come from privileged circumstances. I have lived in three trailers. I am a dropout, with a high-school equivalency.

I am a community-college graduate. Before becoming a writer I worked blue-collar jobs until my 30s. And I am ordained to perform weddings, by the same prestigious organization that ordained George Clooney.

But you know what? I have a lot to be thankful for.

Foremostly, I am thankful for my life. Which is the greatest gift I have received. Sometimes I lose sight of how lucky I am. But not today.

Because today, thanks to the somewhat exaggerated rumors of my death, I am reminded that no matter how unattractive, unfit, or unskilled I might be, I am alive.

And there aren’t many people who can say that.