Five years to live.
Strange words to hear about a parent.
Better than one. Worse than ten.
So far in the future. I could be dead in five years. I could trip. He could trip.
Like in that movie with Simon Baker, Wynona Rider, and that girl from Lost.
Five years. Thinking McCoy in Star Trek V. Every minute some new technology. Maybe everyone will grow brand new pig hearts.
Bad now, what is year four like?
Worth it? Won’t know till we get there.
Some time traveler came back today with awful news but very little to do about it.
The Earth explodes in five years. But then it doesn’t. Maybe he beats that prediction, defies the predictive powers of modern medicine.
Happens often enough, doesn’t it?
But five years, ten years, whenever.
Many years come after.
Dave Chapelle had that whole bit about every black dude being a qualified paralegal. I’ve learned this week everybody over the age of fifty is a qualified cardiologist. Talk to them about a heart condition they will name fifteen drugs, five kinds of surgery. They will name six people the patient should go see in in the area, a few books, some websites. They have theories and practical advice and they will say who not to go see.
Those old fuckers are knowledgeable.
Let’s talk about The Weather. The Weather is a reoccurring phenomenon in my dreams lately, an organization peopled by a bunch of psuedo-nietzschean baynesian-evangalists, all wearing black turtlenecks. Among themselves they speak a strange guttural language that seems just beyond the reach of deciphering. One of their oft-repeated mantras is “The Will Is All.” They keep showing up at moments of danger in my dreams and then telling me to do the most dangerous thing.
For example, last night, after a strenuous bit of effort I finally climbed the redwood that grew out of a viscous swamp. No sooner had i reached the peak of the redwood than these two guys from The Weather showed up and explained in vaguely threatening tones I needed to jump to the peak of the next redwood. It seemed too far. Then I woke up.
I have been vomiting for about 12 hours. I’m thinking food poisoning but what do I know. You know the floor always feels so good when this happens. Like the floor will take care of you if you hug it enough. I don’t think I’ve felt this bad in the last decade.
This is a remarkably unpleasant day.But water and floor have never been more appreciated.
Look girl roommate, I think of you are great. But! But! Don’t just stand there wrapped in a revealing towel talking to me for ten minutes. Do you have any idea how uninteresting the ceiling is to stare at?