Since I'm unemployed at the moment...
I need to get caught up on my writing. My original fiction, if at all possible. But I have such a hard time getting started. So you, the three or four people who read this, are going to inspire me.
The following meme was taken from
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You think you do. Right now, you're thinking that I'm the most selfish man on Earth. And I admit, I'm up there with the worst of them. I'm scared. I'm used to being invincible. I don't want to die. It's not the idea of being dead that bothers me either. It's the idea of dying slowly. Of going from a healthy person to a sick person. If I have to die, I want to die standing up. I want to die holding my killer by his throat and punching him in the face.
You've got friends. When I'm dead, they're going to help you through it, and in a year you'll wonder what you ever saw in me. And as much as I hate the thought of being replaced, you deserve better than me anyway. I'm a berserker. There's a place for people like me, and it isn't a nice place. You don't want to be with me for the rest of your life.
I never could get away from fighting. It was my vice. The doctors can't tell you why I'm degenerating the way I am, though I'm sure they'd like to chronicle my downward spiral and write an article about it. I know why I'm dying though. Cells can only divide so many times so quickly before something's screwed up somewhere. That's how you get cancer. That's how you get old. Fuck Wolverine and every other superhero who could shrug off a thousand bullet wounds and live forever. This is what superhuman retirement looks like. My body is trying to decide whether to fall apart or eat itself, and I still want to fight.
Fortunately, I have... a culprit. I know the bastard who killed me. And he is a bastard. I've never fought with an innocent man. I've only seldom fought with anyone who was completely human. This guy isn't human at all. The wind is blowing so hard that the rain's falling sideways, and he's just standing there smiling at me, wearing a bright red t-shirt. I've seen him in that shirt twice. I sometimes see that shirt in my fucking sleep. I know he's got other ones. Why does he like that one so much? It can't just be that he's the devil. He's not that cliché.
I love you. Really. I didn't want you to take this as a rejection. Seeing me die wasn't going to be a good time for you anyway. Don't blame me for what amounts to suicide, not when I'm about to die fighting the only person who's ever made me afraid.
At least this way, I'll die strangling my murderer with his own ugly shirt.
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