The Recluse's Web



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09/08/2014 21:50:00

Anyone old enough to really be considered a person knows about death.  I think that’s the criteria, really.  “Are you aware that your existence is finite? Yes? Then welcome to the human race! Here’s your membership badge.  Now start dreading.”  But even then, it’s still a vague, shadowy omen that looms off in the distance.  The creature in a classic monster movie: unseen, but felt.

Then some bullshit happens and it’s right there, in your face, ready to drag you into who knows what.  So you fight.  You kick and punch and scream and cry and pray, only to find it’s still dragging you along, one inch at a time.

That’s what my life is: a losing battle.  One day at a time. One inch at a time.  And it fucking sucks.

People will tell you not to be bitter.  They’ll say you need to try and make the most of the time.  That you should learn, live, love and other Hallmark sounding shit.  Well save your “sorry you’re going to die before me” card, jerkass.  I’m the one who’s terminally ill.  Not you.  So eat a dick.  And the others?  Those who are dying like me?  Well I doubt they’re dying as a direct result of somebody else’s actions.  It’s harder to be all Zen when the last fifty to sixty years of your life were stolen by your own brother.

Oh, and it gets better.  Not only did he rob me of my AARP years, but he got super powers for doing it!  The whole damn package: flight, strength, speed, endurance.  And I get supercancer.  Yes, really.  Supercancer.  An advanced mutation in my cells that is not only malignant, but intelligent.  It grows and adapts and no drugs or radiation or nanites or anything do much for long.  It overcomes.  It’d be goddamn inspiring if it weren’t consuming me from the inside.

So feel free to tell me I’m too emo.  By all means, tell me that I should move on and accept things as they are.  Then, go fall in a well and die.  I’ll meet you on the other side when I’m done.



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