Nothing funny about this motherfucking shit: I am going to be the executor of Nikol’s living will. Because she is going to die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But soon, and for the rest of her life.
She has no hair now and no eyebrows, and pukes so much that her stomach and/or esophagus is ulcerated and she vomits fountains of blood. I saw some on the toilet seat. We both remarked that it was good that it wasn’t black blood. Because… why is it again? Because black blood means that it’s internal bleeding. That the blood has somehow seeped between organs and sat there and blackened. If you are puking black blood, you are really in trouble. Where the fuck did we learn that, HOUSE MD?
Whatever– my view is regardless of the color blood you are shitting or puking, you are well and truly fucked and thinking the red blood is so great is merely hair-splitting.
She is going to die and when that is real close to happening she wants me to pull the plug if necessary. She has no relatives she trusts to pull this off without chickening out, and since she’s a product of the foster care system there is no one who takes legal precedent. So when her brain has liquified, I’m to give the order: cease all resuscitation efforts or whatever the fuck. Then I’m gonna sit there and hold her hand until the machine goes BEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPP.
Nikol, I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t think I could throw the circuit breaker if there was a one in one million chance that you might come back. Even if you came back crippled and retarded. But then, I would also not want to wheel you around and reteach you the word “banana” and wipe your ass, either, so I’m kind of like the feminist critique of pro-lifers. I only care about the baby before it’s born. Or in this case, I only care about the brain damaged crippled retard before its state of dysfunctional undeath.
I don’t have the money to buy you one of those crazy wheelchairs you blow into to steer but maybe we could make you something equally awesome. Maybe we could wheel you around on that crazy land ship from ICE PIRATES. A giant postapocalyptic hellboat with big spikey wheels and a bald sickly retard at the helm. It would be fitting, since Robert Urich also died from cancer.
Anyway, I respect your wishes to die with dignity, but how the fuck do we know if there’s part of you that’s still alive? There’s that one chick who can shoot baskets with beachballs. People are waking up from comas all the time and reporting that they knew exactly what was going on the whole time– I mean, what if you are secretly awake, and in there somewhere? What if being in a coma actually kicks ass? What if you’re just constantly dreaming about fucking attractive people on top of an ice cream mountain?
But fuck it, you know. If that’s what you want, that’s what I gotta do. Kill you. You have guys who you call to beat you, you have guys who you call to rape you. Now you have me, the guy you call to kill you. The last weird OKCupid dude whom you will request to do something bizarre and criminal and only partially in a roleplaying context. It is fitting that this will be the way you go out.
I’m gonna have you converted to some weird religion first though. I’m gonna have your hospital room filled with fat polyamorous Wiccans.