The Emerald Lie

Dying.

La mort est maintenant.

Three months in the hospital and emerged with the doctor’s verdict

... tops?

“You have three months to live.”

... “It is in the liver, spreading gradually to the brain.

... Put your affairs in order.”

Or rather, in my case, disorder.

A due date focuses the mind wonderfully.

Suddenly you don’t have to fret about paying the water charges. You want to weep for the pup that will be left behind.

What did I miss in the three forlorn months?

Me own self.

Ireland voting yes to same-sex marriage.

And,

On a weird connected note,

Bruce Jenner on the cover of Vanity Fair as a woman with the phrase

... “Call me Caitlyn.”

Jesus wept.

Missed the Eurovision song contest.

Ah, horrors.

Missed the Grammarian being literally bricked.

I got back to my apartment and, for a few minutes, sat on the sofa in delayed shock. What I most wanted to do was simply curl up in a ball and howl. Dying!

Fuck.

Managed to stir and grab the bottle of Jay, pour a wallop, and sink it. Stood with my eyes closed until it hit my gut. Then hit it did.

Hard and wonderful. Wiped my brow and let out a slow, agonized,

... phew.