Am I still on the right side of the numbers to be considered "too young to die"? Would my death be tragic or just another middle-aged life slipping away? If I refuse to let you carve into me...is that giving up? Is it asking for trouble...or is it a rational, calm acceptance of my fate? And if that doesn't make sense in your head, do you really think I care? My life. My decisions. Your desperate medicine is never going to save me. And if you believe it will...then your disease is worse than mine. Nyah-nyah.
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Purchased at Target: brown sweater, pink stationery, blush with which to infuse color into my anemic cheeks, desk lamp, socks.
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Driving home down Western, the Chicago-centric-ness of my existence hit me. I have always found great comfort in the familiar but lately the new and strange seems more like home. Plans must be made...I hear the call...It is time to go. I am going.
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Things do happen for a reason. That's all I know and the only thing I trust at this moment.
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