Although it is as big as a hubcap, it is located under my arm and doesn’t make me limp.  It isn’t really what it does anyway, it’s what it’s going to do.  What it does determines continuously who you are; when it’s active, always downhill.  What I am right now is thus a creature with a bad wing.  The arms do not drape down evenly to the sides.  One of them sticks out.  Since it is at the top, it sticks out more at the bottom, so, I crook the elbow.  It is painful to press the arm against my side; it is painful just from the contact, from gravity.  There is also a just-got-out-of-bed look, an aged look, an unwell look, I suppose.  Any suspicious eye could pick it up, without knowing exactly what’s wrong, and eyes make suspicion their business.  Ill health isn’t welcome around here.  That is, with the exception of this house.  I lucked into one where it is okay.  A couple of people who live here have had cancer.  However, we are not all in the same boat.  I am waiting for brain tumors to grow to the size where they do something.  There is benign, malignant, and malignant melanoma.  This is a fast killer.

Let’s see what it is, but first, I have someone to do the talking for me, an author who wrote about his cancer.  From this, I can see what you are supposed to do.  He fictionalizes the upside of having cancer, and all writing for profit is a style in which it claims to be the only way to write.  I suppose so.  It is great to get eyes to peruse your great thoughts, all the way to the end, trapping them.  What do they know?  Let’s take their time against their will.  Naw, it is okay.  I like to read good writing.  After I am done it is almost as if I haven’t been sitting on my ass.

I have obtained Nic sheff’s book, Tweak.  The other one just like it is by William Burroughs’ son.  They are a few decades apart, but the similarity is in the falseness of “near-death”, the emaciated addict in the throes of mental status changes.  Hey, some tumors in the brain first put you in a coma when they are the size of an orange.  Cancer is real death.  It isn’t a bullet you dodge.  One minute you are there, and the next, you’re gone.

It’s funny.  It doesn’t have a sudden lack of opportunity, like a plane crash.  You can say goodbye.  Thanks.  It doesn’t matter much what it has.  Nobody wants it.  What hurts me is my collection of days.  It is going to cut those down so I am not seventy, but, what is sixty to seventy but gray all the time?  I ahve to fill in what helps, so, I am going to say I’m a prophet now, and the shape of the numbers on the age fifty-eight appealed to me; they look like my initials.  That’ll make it all line up.  It is just over the past week that I have come to realize that  help for this disease is not forthcoming.  I am hardly surprised.  Writing out formulas for dope and making sure everyone can access them makes me one that many people wish would just die.  It’s good luck from their pont of view, but they should have thought it through.  My blog isn’t going away.  It is just supposed to stimulate thought, and that to manufacture stimulants. In fact, I must open up and attempt to locate syntheses for all the other illegal drugs.  Who would want to be close to possessing all the ingredients for  a mind-altering substance and not know it?  I certainly wouldn’t.

That blue one below has a good story to go with it.

I put in one slide of hairy cell leukemia.  It just comes to mind as something gross.  All the names often have dread associated with them.  I guess the  name “bullet” may have the dread diverted, depending on how you take it.  You could be the one armed with one or more bullets.  But, that is a difficult mental trick to perform with a cancer.  Cancer is  coming after you.  It is just a question of where you want it.  That other stuff I don’t have ought to look different.  I believe it has less cytoplasm.


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