A young woman's carefree life is derailed when she becomes terminally ill.
What if I woke up tomorrow to find my lifespan cut in half?
I’m on the bus right now. I don’t look at the people on the bus the same way I did before. I wonder if any of them are suffering. If any of them are dying. I guess we are all dying. Some much faster than others. So many things we don’t know about each other.
I used to sit there and analyze appearances, thinking I knew everything about a person just by looking at them. Thinking I would not have worn that. Thinking I would not eat that. Wondering why someone would wear their hair like that.
But now I have a secret they don’t know. I’m dying. And I don’t care anymore about my hair and my clothes and my food, or theirs. That shit does not even matter.
I am humble. I am angry at myself for being vacuous bitch with a closed off heart for so long.
The bus drives by the drug addicts. These people are the ones who die. Not people like me. I am loved. I am supported. I can do anything. I am healthy. Was healthy.
I have been wallowing in comfortable, lazy apathy for the past five years. I used to be passionate about something. Can’t remember what it was. My addiction was maximum instant gratification with minimum labour expenditure. This was my secret of life. To do absolutely nothing in particular on a Tuesday when the other schmucks were out in their monkey suits lined up for their Americanos on their way to their 9-5s. Idiots.
We just smoked a big joint and now we’re gonna ride our bikes around, maybe shop a little, maybe pick up some art supplies to do something artistic later, maybe stop and eat some sushi on a patio in the sun. THE LIFE. I don’t care about money. I just want to live in comfort and be able to do all of the above in the middle of the week if I so please.
What a fucking useless bitch.
My ego dissolved into thin air when she told me.
“Your tests came back positive.”