Dear The World:
First off: Fuck you. For the shit you did, the shit you’re doing, and the shit you’re gonna continue to do. Fuck you with friction.
Second: You are not respecting the candana*.
As loyal readers–or everyone in earshot because I won’t shut the fuck up about it–know, I am diseased. The treatment for my particular disease is a thorough poisoning. Now, the treatment for most diseases is poison–antibiotics are just cyanide pills for bacteria–but at a smaller scale; the shit they’re giving me would drop a herd of reindeer. It’s according-to-Hoyle toxic. Literally the only reason you would allow this biocidal swill access to your innards is “cuz otherwise you’ll be dead in three months.” It takes six hours to administer because they have to dilute the solution to the point where it won’t melt your veins.
You know: poison.
Those of you who have not had the good fortune to embark upon your Cancer Journey® may be asking, “Isn’t poisoning a sick person counter-productive?”
And I brush your cheek lovingly, with the grace of a drunken father, and then try to pick your nose.
“Stop it,” you say.
I don’t. I won’t! I’m digging for gold, muchacho!
Okay, okay, okay. This time you distracted yourself. You didn’t even have the courtesy to blame it on bold-faced guy or put your crazy thoughts in the mouth of a character. You just explicitly broke down.
I took my dick out at Foot Locker, didn’t I?
You’re having a rough year, pal, but its no reason to take it out on everyone else.
Counterpoint: Fuck them. How’d you get in here, anyway? I cast a Moat Spell around Open Letters.
STOP CAPITALIZING SHIT LIKE THAT.
If you have a point, you may get back to it. Otherwise, I’m locking the doors on this one.
My point is this: My candana is not inspiring the proper deference. You know what that schmata means, The World! I’m not wearing it for my health, I’m wearing it because of my health. Do you think I enjoy sporting this rag, The World? I look like the seventh-place finisher in a David Foster Wallace lookalike contest**. Of all the indignities that cancer has imposed, being forced from my aesthetic is the most painful.
I have gone chemocore.
And all I’m asking for is a bit of acknowledgement. Come up to me–without penetrating my now greatly-expanded Personal Health Radius, of course–and tell me how brave I am. You might also refer to me as a “warrior,” and throw the verb “battle” about willy-nilly. Maybe you could carry something for me, or bathe me in semi-sacred oils.
For example, the other day I was in Publix, flying the flag of flagging energy, and not one shopper offered to carry me through the aisles like a baby. I only needed a couple of things!
That’s it. Calling this one.
I’M FACING MAJOR REVERSALS OF FORTUNE HERE, MAN.
True. But you don’t have to take it out on everyone.
For the third time: Fuck them.
This post had a theme.
Well, I am America’s Greatest Semi-Discovered Writer.
What did I tell you about the capitalizing?
*Candana = Cancer Bandana. I’ve explained the portmanteau already, and even if I hadn’t, it’s easily decipherable via context clues and a general cultural awareness. Keep up.
**Footnote jokes, muchacho.