The interesting/potentially tragic/ha-ha-hilarious/fucked part of having a progressing "unknown" illness is that, in my heart, I know, at some point, my life will come down to a gamble: either death or near death.
I keep imagining myself on an operating room table, heart stopped, a doctor rubbing difibrillator paddles above my corpse.
Looking down at me.
Slightly confused.
Noticing I'm a white male in my thrirties.
With:
Missing teeth.
A chest tattoo.
Small hands.
Uneven moustache.
Faded black shorts.
Then a nurse cupping a hand over her mouth and whispering to his ear, "he doesn't have insurance."
The doctor staring, undecided.
The nurse cupping her hand again to her mouth, whispering, "he's accomplished nothing."
The doctor tilting his head slightly sideways.
An EMT yawning, then checking the Lakers score on his iPhone.
The nurse cupping another whisper.
"Nobody likes him."
The doctor mussing his hair with a difib paddle.
Slightly disgusted.
The left side of his lips curling upwards.
Sneering.
Really sneering.
Not completely decided though.
Then the nurse rolling her eyes, pointing at the body while saying, "...he's mean."
Everyone but me going home to watch 2Chainz perform on SNL.
Everyone loving it.
Just motherfucking loving it.
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