Bad News. v 2.0 : Fuck This Shit
My Dad called. He told me that he had bad news - and I honestly don't know how it could have gotten worse, but it did. Seven weeks. Seven fucking weeks, they told him. He didn't want to talk about it much, and said he knew I probably didn't either - but he wanted to tell me that I don't have to be strong, but that I was. Well, I don't feel it. And he wanted to let me know that he was okay. I told him I was okay too - but I'm not.
It's a countdown now - every week wondering if this is it - I'm so numb from this shit, this fucking poison thought-shit of death that's crept all over my field of vision since 1995: well, now I'm just blind with it. How the fuck is he supposed to be okay with this? He just got married. How the fuck do I even do this again? How long until I die of the same shit that has now claimed both my parents?
Fuck this. Fuck cancer. Fuck caring about anyone. Fuck trying. It just hurts too much, and it's all transitory - a tragedy waiting to happen. I don't want it anymore.
It's a countdown now - every week wondering if this is it - I'm so numb from this shit, this fucking poison thought-shit of death that's crept all over my field of vision since 1995: well, now I'm just blind with it. How the fuck is he supposed to be okay with this? He just got married. How the fuck do I even do this again? How long until I die of the same shit that has now claimed both my parents?
Fuck this. Fuck cancer. Fuck caring about anyone. Fuck trying. It just hurts too much, and it's all transitory - a tragedy waiting to happen. I don't want it anymore.