There will be no images in this post. This post will not even be that long. I won’t even swear about ridiculous things and I won’t root out minority groups in badly designed jokes. I won’t go on a political tirade or even try to type out a lecture in some elaborate effort to change the way people think or live. No. Tonight I write a letter to you, the reader of this article, because sometimes we have to cut ourselves away from the silly day-to-day shenanigans and force some perspective into our weary minds.
This is some inspired fiction, based on something that happened a few days ago to a good friend of mine. Tonight, I visited him in the hospital. He’s okay, everything’s fine. But it’s 10:30. I have a ton of work to do and I can’t be bothered to be writing something five people may read.
No, I can’t be bothered with writing more articles and the like, but here I am at 10:30 PM, that’s right, PM. The temperature has steadily been dropping after a surge of several thunderstorms have soaked my little town. With high winds and heavy downfalls of rain and even spots of hail, today has been a murky one. Work was just as dreary today as I walked around my school collecting papers for this and that. I do believe my job has evolved more into “secretary” than teacher, but that’s a gripe for another day.
I got a call from a friend this evening. It was unexpected. He was in an accident and was hurt pretty bad. He sounded pretty down, but he’s down quite a bit. Getting knocked down day to day is a hard knock life that many of us go through, but none of us understand how bad it is. It’s easy to say that your bid on this rock is worse than your neighbor’s, but he may really be deeply affected by the fact that Justin Bieber has a bigger …. “bank account” than him. It may really irk his nerves that Bieber could please his wife better with his “bank account.” Oh, and your neighbor can’t sing. Where was I?
My friend is a smart guy. Great guy. Family man. Salt of the Earth kind of guy and he’s on the hook, talking to me, telling me about how the doctor just told him about how he was going to die. Tonight. A terrible wound he suffered was infected with MRSA. The local hospital failed to diagnose exactly what was going on, and by the time they realized, the infection was in his chest, in his heart, and you could hear the sputter of his engine slowly dying.
I was sad, you see, we’ve been boys since grade 1. We’ve been through thick and thin together and we’ve fought with and against each other. Now, in our early thirties, we’re beaten down family men. And he is dying. I sped over to the hospital, I was worried about losing my friend. My brother. I ran to his room, and there he was, on his death bed. Everyone was coming in, but I was the first one there, and I was going to be the first one out. I didn’t want to see his family’s grief firsthand, but I wanted to talk to him one last time, at least, because I finally had an opportunity to ask one of those questions.
You know, those questions you ask each other when you’re 10. “What would you do if you found out you were going to be dead a year from now?” or “What would you do if a guy asked you to eat poop for $100.00?” My question was a bit more direct, and actually was a reasonable question.
This story is about to end, and well, it’s not a great ending because I’m not some high rolling literary expert who puts effort into every syllable. I’m not some deranged, obsessive word smith who know how to twist an ending so much, that you’ll stay awake for days exclaiming “Didn’t see that coming!” See, like my friend, I too was dying. I was dying spiritually because I wanted to be famous, or “Internet famous” as so many “real” famous people would say, but regardless, I wanted that notoriety. I wanted people to talk about me on Reddit. I wanted people to post page after page about me on Facebook. I wanted memes made about me. Positive reactions? Those are awesome! I would be happy with any kind of attention though. See, I’m also an attention whore. Notice how this suddenly became about me, and my best friend will be dead before the night is over?
“Hey man, I have a question for you. It’s going to hurt a little, I think.”
“What’s up man?”
“Hey, can I film you dying so we can get a million views on Facebook?”
“Oh fuck you.”
Oops, I lied.