Chapter Text
Your name is Dirk Strider, and quite frankly, you’ve grown tiresome of the tedious, superfluous horseshit that you’ve been forced to endure as of late. And by tedious, superfluous horseshit you don’t mean the unfortunate gift of terminal illness that god has so affectionately bestowed upon you. No, by tedious superfluous horseshit you mean the two debatably sentient beings that are currently arguing above your hospital bed.
You were diagnosed with cancer exactly eight months ago, and it’s gone nowhere but downhill from there.
When the doctor inhaled sharply and acknowledged your disease out loud, you weren’t precisely sure how to react. You know how people expected you to react. Your teachers were definitely waiting for you to have a nervous breakdown in the middle of class, waiting for you to burst into tears and throw a desk, as if being diagnosed with cancer is some kind of universal synonym for neurotic psycho. Dave probably hoped that you would open up and talk to him about it, cry on his shoulder so that the two of you could experience some veritable brotherly bonding. Not that Dave is around enough to offer you a shoulder to cry on anyway.
You don’t have any friends, but you think that if you did, they might try to distract you from your increasingly shortening lifespan by acting overly cheerful and self-absorbed, or, more plausibly, by offering you an alcoholic beverage to drown your shock in, or a cake so that you can eat your nonexistent feelings of despondency and despair. They'd probably pity you, too, which is something you don’t want to consider at all. You don’t want pity from anyone, much less your nonexistent hypothetical friends.
Aforementioned pseudo-cognizant beings Kankri and Cronus would likely protest not being listed as friends, but they aren’t your friends even in the most ambiguous definition of the word. You consider their relationship to you as a strictly parasitic one, although you haven’t quite determined what it is that they currently leech from you aside from your energy and general desire to live. You do know what they’ll gain from you if you side with either of them--your soul.
You’re still not entirely sure if you believe in the existence of souls, metaphysical or otherwise. In fact, there are still some days when you are positive that this all part of some exceedingly elaborate prank. Some sort of ruse that’s supposed to counteract your atheism and drag you through this religious experience that forces you into believing in God and repenting before this autoimmune disease kills you, and it’s inexplicably too late for your soul to be saved.
The only reason you can conclude that it is not the case is because if you were religious, you would regard their entire existence in two words: hellaciously blasphemous. You're not sure which fictional belief system’s holy book Kankri and Cronus crawled out of, because they fail to fit the profiles of most eastern religions and in your opinion they’re only dangling onto christianity by a delicate, fraying thread.
You hate to refer to Kankri and Cronus as an angel and demon, primarily because it shames all the traditional folklore and pre-established tropes. Kankri is an angel in only the vaguest, barest sense of the word, in the way he attempts to represent all that is intrinsically good in humanity. More frequently, he fails entirely, and Cronus is just as poor a representation of all that is inherently evil. Good and evil being loosely used terms, as you believe that neither exist nor matter, because at the end of the day you know everything that happens is entirely arbitrary and meaningless.
You have a surprisingly nihilistic view of life for someone your age, but you don’t really worry about it much. You’re used to being ahead of the curve.
You don’t get what the big deal is. If it were up to you, you’d let your soul hang out in purgatory for the eternity of your afterlife, just to piss everyone off and keep all the mythological creatures on the edge of their seats with all the will-he-won't-he bullshit. As if you’re some kind of girl in love with a guy in an anime and everyone is still waiting for you to confess your feelings.
“Hey kitten,” Cronus says, smirking as though he's just said something entirely more perverse. He might as well start calling you sexpot or fuckdoll, with the lewd, sexually charged undercurrent he manages to shoot into everything he says. You wonder if all demons are inherently sexual creatures, or if Cronus is just a rare breed.
“Hello Dirk,” Kankri says, and though he says your true name and his voice is smooth as honey, he doesn’t fool you. He's just as manipulative as Cronus, and once you realized how he plays the game it’s obvious that his poker face is just as poor. You think the only reason he tries not to act like he isn’t God’s gift to the world is because he knows he is, similar to the way a woman likes to enter a room with all the tact and beauty of a rising sun and mutter, “What, this old thing?” just to make the rest of the women in the room feel insecure.
You manage a pathetically weak nod where you would ordinarily offer scathing sarcasm. This last round of chemotherapy hasn't been kind, has sucked whatever energy you had left in your body out through your brain with a straw. You have a migraine that makes having your head bashed against the wall sound like a joyride, and the fluorescent lighting in the room is only exacerbating your condition.
You’d tell one of them to hit the light switch, but it’s not worth hearing another of Kankri’s diatribes about the health risks that come with a lack of light, or one of Cronus’ flirtatious quips about what kind of an afterlife you really prefer, like your preference for a dark room when you have a throbbing headache is some kind of a wink and nudge that says, “Ooh, Cronus, take my soul now!” Cronus thinks it's funny to insinuate things about your soul based on every little move you make. You’ve gotten careful about eating dark chocolate in front of him, just so you don’t have to hear the same old comment every time, about how if you like putting dark things in your mouth, he can definitely offer you something even better.
“Visiting hours are over,” you finally manage wearily, but Cronus just rolls his eyes and Kankri gives you that condescending smile that is just short of saying “sweetie” and patting you reassuringly on the arm. You want to punch them both.
“You know I don't play by the rules,” Cronus says, giving you a wink and a crooked smile, like, whoa, back up, we got a badass over here.
Kankri rolls his eyes even more dramatically than Cronus did, which, given Cronus’ current drama queen status, you didn’t think was possible.
“Sometimes we have to bend the rules for the greater good,” Kankri explains.
It's the shallowest excuse you’ve heard for breaking and entering a children's hospital all week. You’re starting to suspect that's all it takes to get into heaven—a shitty excuse wrapped up in a half-assed idiom.
“Yeah right,” you say, rolling your eyes.
Kankri wants to protest, so much that you can nearly see the indignation rise in his eyes, but he doesn't say anything.
“I'm not agreeing to anything yet,” you say. You know that if you just agree with one of them they'll stop bothering you and you'll be alone again, left to pretend that Lil Cal can actually hear you when you talk to him. You’re unsure as to why that doesn’t sound as appealing as it used to.
“Now Dirk, I don't believe that it's fair for you to presume you know what I'm going to ask.”
“Come on cat, you’re worse than I am,” Cronus says, smirking like he's any better. That's what's wrong with them--they always think they're better than one another.
“Besides,” Cronus continues, “We all know he's just gonna say yes to me anyway.”
Kankri scoffs.
“I'm kinda irresistible.”
You sigh and glance away, not because you’re actually bothered but because awkwardly glancing away is obviously the best route to take to cover up your uncertain sexuality.
“You're completely classless,” Kankri starts, before catching himself.
“Not to imply that I'm ranking anyone by social, economic, or racial class, but rather, I was referring to...” You stop listening. It'd be almost endearing if it wasn't already so annoying.
“I was kiddin’ sugar. This cat over here knows the real reason he's gonna stick with me is so this nasty disease don't get him first.” Cronus laughs fondly, as if you’ve already agreed to sell your soul (the one you still don’t believe exists) in exchange for the short human life span you’d be granted in return. If you did have a soul, you would definitely negotiate that prospect, because the deal is clearly on a sliding scale leaning too far in Cronus’ favor to be a fair trade.
Kankri lets out a screech and his face gets stuck in this horrified expression that would be hilarious if he wasn't following it up with an explanation.
“That is the exact definition of a triggering conversation! You have no idea how blatantly talking about the possible death of Dirk may cause him to react! That could have sent him into an anxiety attack, or worse. It is this kind of conversation that we should only ever enter into with explicit permission, or at the very least exercise with exceed caution and proper trigger warnings beforehand!”
Kankri gives you a genuinely apologetic look so full of pity that you’re surprised his emotional cup doesn't overfloweth. The frank discussion of your impending death doesn't actually bother you. You came to grips with the fact that you would die someday when you were five years old--when you discovered your pet hamster’s lifeless body in its cage, laying peacefully beside a pile of sunflower seeds. Since then it has only been a matter of when and where.
You try not to look at them, mostly because for nonhuman half-moronic hallucinations they’re both exceedingly attractive in different ways that you aren’t ready to acknowledge. Besides, you haven’t jacked off in three days.
You decide to look around the room instead. There's a small countertop and a sink across from your bed, a little bathroom with a toilet and a shower stall inside, and the shower even has a plastic seat and metal bar for you to hold on to so you don’t fall and kill yourself when you attempt to drop down and get your eagle on. The walls are a robin’s egg blue that you don’t especially care for, and despite the beautiful view of Houston and the tempting cawing of the crows, you don’t care much for looking out the window either. You’d stare at the ceiling, but you’ve already memorized how many tiles it has.
The room doesn’t hold your interest for long, and you end up looking at them anyway. At least it’s better than staring at yourself in the mirror above the sink--at your pale skin and dark sunglasses (like the shades covering up your eyes make you any less diseased), at the baseball cap you wear on your head (like it makes you any less bald beneath it.)
They're still arguing, and even with snarls and rage, you can see the sexual tension in the room like a sharp bolt of lightening. Kankri has his arms crossed in front of his bright red sweater, and Cronus is dishing out these fake apologies with all the sincerity of a politician, trying to wrap his arm around Kankri’s shoulders with the subtlety of an eighth grader in a movie theater on his first date.
“C’mon babe, don’t be like that.”
Kankri shakes his head and shoves Cronus’ arm off his shoulder. You can never tell if his advances are serious, if he’s naturally this shamelessly flirtatious or if he does it purposefully to get a rise out of people.
“Excuse me, but I find the term “babe” to be completely offensive, and I kindly request that you stop referring to me as such. Furthermore, I would appreciate it if you would keep your hands to yourself, as I am definitely not interested in your advances--concupiscent, caliginous, or otherwise.”
It doesn’t make sense to you that trolls can be angels and demons, given that they’re already trolls, but the one time you mentioned it you received an endless lecture from Kankri on inadvertent close-mindedness and species dysphoria. You still aren’t exactly sure the of the message Kankri was trying to drill into your skull, but it definitely isn’t a situation you want to relive again, so you’ve given up on figuring it out and stopped caring.
Kankri and Cronus are still continuing their passive-aggressive argument, and it’s starting to become annoying enough that you think it might be time to intervene.
“Oh yeah, well it ain't my fault the best you can offer him is everything'll be just peachy keen when he dies. What bullshit.”
Kankri is boiling with rage, and he's trying so hard to keep a cap on it that you’re waiting for his face to turn red like an old-school cartoon, waiting for his rage to bubble until smoke is shooting out of his ears. Kankri's voice is surprisingly even when he calms himself enough to speak.
“First of all, watch your language.” To anyone else it would sound petty, like a mother scolding a child for cursing, but Kankri has a way with shooting a base “shut the fuck up” into the plainest of phrases. Cronus grins.
“Second of all--and no offense is meant by this Dirk--what is the point of a century of mediocre living to an eternity of paradise?”
Cronus scoffs.
“It depends on your idea of paradise. ‘Cause anything where the entrance fee is shoving a stick up my ass ain't no paradise to me.”
“That is completely—” Kankri is struggling for words, for control. You can all but see them lodged in his throat.
“Speak up buttercup, you got your chastity belt wrapped around your throat or somethin’?” And that's all it takes.
“That metaphor is not only completely lewd and inappropriate, it's completely false! Just because your idea of a good time is sexual fornication and alcohol does not mean that my definition of paradise is any less legitimate! In fact, I would say my definition of paradise is generally the more popular and socially accepted definition. Not to shame anyone with a preference for sexual activity as opposed to abstinence and chastity, like myself—”
There are more words on the tip of his tongue, but you already know what they're going to be, and you really don’t need to hear them again.
“I'll make up my mind by the end of the month,” you say, because you figure it’s a good idea to make a decision before your surgery, in case on the off chance that heaven and hell do exist, you’ve got a VIP pass to at least one of them.
The words hang heavy in the room, stone cold and immediately placating.
“That’s very wise of you Dirk, to make a decision before your--not to trigger you--impending operation. Now, while I am trying to keep my immortal privilege in check, I still think that...”
When you finally convince Cronus and Kankri to leave, the room is eerily silent. The nurse has already given you this evening's dinner--it's chicken, mashed potatoes and jello, and it's as bland and uninteresting as the rest of the hospital. You don’t digest food well most days anyway, so you only pick at the potatoes and leave the rest on your plate. The fluorescent lights are finally off, leaving you to nurse your migraine in front of the faint glow of your laptop screen.
You decide to message Karkat, a troll you met online a year and a half ago through a post about self harm that you really don’t feel like getting into right now. You try to shift your thoughts to something more calming, but instead you end up thinking that despite being the biggest douchebag you’ve ever met, Cronus Ampora is a pretty handsome guy. That naturally reminds you of your first crush--a dorky, glasses wearing boy and the best friend of your older brother--you’d met him when you were seven years old.
You know you aren’t gay, but sometimes you aren't exactly sure if you’re heterosexual either, and you don't really like to think about what that means too much. Instead, you much prefer to analyze others.
-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] --
CG: I REALLY DON'T HAVE TIME FOR YOUR HUMAN SEXUALITY CRISIS BULLSHIT RIGHT NOW. I'M KIND OF IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING.
TT: What, in the middle of an expert level on dance dance revolution?
CG: ACTUALLY, NO. SO WHY DON'T YOU GO SHOVE YOUR HUMAN MEAT STICK IN A BUCKET AND GO FUCK YOURSELF.
TT: That's not how humans masturbate.
CG: I KNOW THAT.
TT: So what is it you're doing?
CG: WRITING A NOTE.
TT: Writing a note.
CG: DID I FUCKING STUTTER?
TT: Let me rephrase that. That statement was merely to exasperate my disbelief. Why are you writing a note?
CG: BECAUSE THE ASSHOLE DOWNSTAIRS APPARENTLY DOESN'T UNDERSTAND THE DEFINITION OF THE PHRASE NOISE POLLUTION.
CG: EITHER THE DISGUSTING FREAK IS ATTEMPTING TO MATE WITH ITS NUTRIENT WASTE GRINDER OR FOR SOME GODFORSAKEN REASON IS TRYING TO COMMUNICATE WITH ITS LONG DEAD AND PROBABLY EVEN LESS TOLERABLE LUSUS.
TT: I take it someone finally rented the apartment downstairs?
CG: WHAT GAVE YOU THAT IDEA?
CG: WAS IT WHEN I MENTIONED THAT MY NEW ASSBLOOD NEIGHBOR IS A COMPLETE MORON WHO DECIDED TO LITERALLY TAKE A SHIT ON ALL SENSE OF COMMON COURTESY?
CG: NOT ONLY DID HE INVADE THIS PATHETIC EXCUSE OF A HIVE THAT I CALL A HOME WITH HIS FILTHY NOISE WASTE, BUT HE ALSO HAS THE PURE AUDACITY TO FORCE ME TO TAKE PART IN IT.
TT: What exactly is the problem? Are you trying to tell me he's too loud?
CG: NO, I'M TRYING TO TELL YOU HE'S TOO GODDAMN GOOD NATURED.
CG: WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK DIPSHIT?
CG: THE GUY SAW THE LINE BETWEEN LOUD AND EAR SHATTERING AND DECIDED TO INVENT A WHOLE NEW FUCKING TIER.
CG: SERIOUSLY. ITS LIKE THE GUY JUST CREATED A NEW DECIBEL LEVEL.
CG: THE FLOOR SHAKES. MY APARTMENT IS MADE OUT OF CONCRETE.
CG: DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LOUD SOMETHING HAS TO BE TO SHAKE CONCRETE?
CG: NO. NO YOU FUCKING DON'T BECAUSE YOU'RE TOO COMFY IN YOUR SHITTY LITTLE HOSPITAL BED LETTING THE SOUND OF BEEPING ANGELS SING YOU TO SLEEP ON A MOTHERFUCKING CLOUD.
TT: That statement about the comfort level of the hospital beds is not only inaccurate, but completely irrelevant. Have you even tried verbal communication with your neighbor, before jumping head first into a world of thinly concealed insults and passive aggressive notes?
CG: NO. AND BESIDES, I’M BEING POLITE ABOUT IT.
TT: Are you sure that’s even an option you’re capable of? I’ve looked through the manual twice now and I’ve yet to see any information regarding a “polite” setting.
CG: HA FUCKING HA.
CG: I’M WRITING SUCH A POLITE, KINDLY WORDED LETTER THAT EVEN READING IT WILL MAKE YOU WANT TO GO OUT AND BUY A DRESS JUST YOU CAN PRACTICE YOUR CURTSIES.
CG: NOW SHUT YOUR NOISEFLAP, I NEED TO CONCENTRATE.
TT: My noiseflap has been firmly shut since the beginning of this conversation.
CG: YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN YOU INCOMPETENT BULGELICKER. I’M LEAVING NOW.
TT: Why? Is me forcing you to confront your tendency to overreact too much for you to handle?
CG: NO, I HAVE TO GO PIN THIS NOTE ON HIS DOOR BEFORE HE GETS BACK FROM WORK, JACKASS. CG: I'LL TALK TO YOU LATER.
TT: Bye.
-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] is an idle chum --
The conversation doesn’t last as long as you’d like, but you figure it’s about time you update your blog anyway. You don’t have that many followers, and you doubt anyone has noticed your lack of posts, but still, you feel a sort of personal obligation to keeping the few meager fans you do have up to date on your private life and intimate puppet escapades.
Like usual, today’s post is overflowing with an overdose of irony. (Though you’ve been using certain phrases for so long you’re not quite sure if you can call them “ironic” anymore. You try not to think about this too much, lest you end up in some sort of ironic half assed double reacharound.)
You sift through your askbox, idly answering questions like “when will u upload moar puppets???” and “can i commission you?” until you get to what you really were really looking for: the hatemail. You get a big kick out of publishing it and snidely ridiculing the douchebags who send it to you--you’re a young person dying of a terminal illness, for christ sakes. In particular, you like shaming your worst and favorite fan.
As far as you can tell, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of your hatemail comes from one anonymous user with a penchant for typing in capslock with one finger on the shift key. Even without the typing quirk, you would recognize the broken grammar and odd, stilted use of vulgarity. From what you’ve gathered about troll romance from Karkat, someone out there is rocking a hate boner for you the size of Mount Everest.
Nothing he says actually hurts, though you aren’t particularly fond of the reference to suicide. You’re not one to bitch and ask the people you follow to tag their posts with trigger warnings, but posts and images about suicide make you a little uneasy nonetheless.
As far as you can tell, this asshole is really in hate with you. If you respond with equal amounts of ferocity and emotion you’ll only end up egging him on. At least, that’s what you think. You don’t really know all that much about troll romance because Karkat only makes sense half the time, and since there isn’t exactly a big non-troll audience interested in troll cinema, most of the movies you’ve seen have subtitles that could make 4kids Entertainment look like a quality company.
Anyway, you’re about to reply to this guys hatemail with a big gold star that says “You Tried” on it in comic sans, but you notice a bright red notification at the top of your screen. You know it’s your mystery hatecrush before your mouse even hovers over the mail icon.
At first you aren’t even sure what the hell he’s talking about, because you don’t smoke weed and you can’t imagine when you ever insinuated that you did. But then everything falls into place. You don’t waste any time dallying and decide to respond immediately. You can’t help but passive aggressively goad him--just a little.
It seems that your biggest fan has already responded. You’re not really sure how that’s possible, but you didn’t log on to your blog to debate the laws of space and time.
You’ve never actually done drugs of any sort, but you know enough about them to know that they don’t come in boxes and you don’t ingest them directly. You’re not fond of intoxication in any form--alcohol or drugs--and if the morphine wasn’t completely necessary to block out the pain from chemotherapy, you’d probably reject that too. You don’t like the way it weakens your resolve and dampens your ability to think on your feet, as if you aren’t in control of your own limbs.
His attempt at rebuttal is amusing if not pointless. You don’t know why you feel the need to spur him on, except that despite his stupidity he’s pretty entertaining and you don’t have much else going for you at the moment.
You figure the best method for pissing him off further is to log off and ignore him completely, so he doesn’t even have the chance to fight back against your clever responses. You’re feeling kind of tired anyway, and you’ve got a big day ahead of you full of sewing and stuffing, so you might as well go to sleep a little early tonight.
-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling timaeusTestified [TT] --
Or not. Staying up a little later isn’t going to kill you, and you’re almost curious about what Karkat has been up to with his new downstairs neighbor. You can’t wait to see what he’s completely overreacted to next.
CG: THE GUY DOWNSTAIRS IS OFFICIALLY THE BIGGEST ASSHOLE I HAVER EVER SEEN AND I HAVEN’T EVEN MET HIM YET.
TT: How big of an asshole are we talking here?
CG: OBNOXIOUSLY BIG. LIKE THE GAPING ASSHOLE OF A PORN STAR WHO JUST FINISHED UP AN ANAL GANGBANG SCENE.
TT: That’s pretty fucking huge. What was his latest offense?
CG: ASIDE FROM TRYING TO BLAST MY EARS OFF WITH THAT FUCKING BITCHRACKET, HE RESPONDED TO MY KINDLY WORDED LETTER LIKE A COMPLETE DOUCHEBAG.
CG: I ACTUALLY PUT TIME AND EFFORT INTO WRITING THAT AND ATTEMPTING TO MAINTAIN CORDIALITY BUT THIS ASSHOLE JUST BLEW ALL SEMBLANCE OF POLITENESS RIGHT OUT OF THE FUCKING WATER.
TT: Why don’t you just tell me what he wrote?
CG: UGH. NOW I HAVE TO TYPE THIS CRAP OUT, TOO? WRITING IT THE FIRST TIME AROUND WAS MORE THAN SUFFICIENT TORTURE.
TT: I can’t validate your rage if I don’t properly understand the situation.
CG: FINE. THIS IS WHAT I WROTE:
CG: DEAR DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBOR,
CG: WELCOME TO THE DILAPIDATED APARTMENT BUILDING I AM FORCED TO CALL MY HOME. I REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT IN THE TWO SWEEPS I’VE BEEN LIVING HERE NOT ONLY HAS THE QUALITY OF LIVING DECLINED, BUT I’M PRETTY FUCKING SURE THE COCKROACHES HAVE GIVEN UP AND MOVED TO THE ABANDONED LOT DOWN THE STREET WHERE THEY PROBABLY HAVE MORE RELIABLE FACILITIES. AND POSSIBLY EVEN A CEILING THAT DOESN’T LEAK EVERY DAMN TIME GOD DECIDES TO TAKE A PISS.
CG: IF YOU COULD KEEP THE NOISE DOWN TO A LESS EAR-SHATTERING DECIBEL I COULD NOT ONLY CONTINUE TO ENJOY THE LOVELY SOUNDS OF MY NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBORS INDULGING IN VARIOUS SEXUAL ACTIVITIES, BUT I MIGHT, I JUST MIGHT EVEN BE ABLE TO PRETEND I’M SOMEWHERE ELSE. LAST NIGHT MY LIVING ROOM MEASURED A NINE POINT FIVE ON THE RICHTER SCALE, AND IF IT GETS ANY LOUDER I FEAR THE SHODDY FOUNDATION OF THIS PATHETIC SHELTER MAY CRUMBLE. GIVEN THAT YOU LIVE BELOW ME AND WILL DIE FIRST IF THAT DOES INDEED HAPPEN, YOU MAY WANT TO TAKE THAT INTO CONSIDERATION.
CG: P.S. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT EAR BLEEDING CRAP YOU KEEP BLASTING ANYWAY? IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU ROUNDED UP THE LOCAL STRAYS AND ARE ATTEMPTING TO DIRECT SOME KIND OF FUCKED UP FELINE CHORUS. DON’T QUIT YOUR DAY JOB ANYTIME SOON.
TT: That isn’t actually half-bad. Though you definitely could have gone without the “p.s.” at the end. What did he say in response?
CG: IT’S CALLED DUBSTEP.
TT: What?
CG: THAT WAS HIS FUCKING RESPONSE.
CG: THAT’S ALL HE HAD TO SAY FOR HIMSELF.
TT: Wow, you’re right. This is definitely an A+ just fisted asshole you have on your hands.
TT: Dubstep? How dare him enjoy such a thing in the privacy of his own home.
CG: THAT’S JUST IT. IT ISN’T PRIVATE. HE’S FORCING THE ENTIRE BUILDING TO “ENJOY” IT.
CG: WHICH, IN CASE YOU CAN’T TELL, I DON’T.
TT: I assumed that’s what you were insinuating with the use of quotation marks. Maybe you should get some headphones.
CG: I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO VALIDATE MY ANGER, NOT GIVE ME SHITTY ADVICE.
TT: Sorry, it’s hard to fault a bro for an excellent taste in music. You know how I feel about “the dubstep.”
CG: FUCK YOU.
-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling timaeusTestified [TT]--
This time you’re really going to sleep, and you’re so sure of it that you even power off your laptop so that you don’t give into the temptation to check your email a third time. You’re on your way to the bathroom so that you can empty your bladder before the night nurse shows up to give you your nightly dose of morphine when your cellphone alerts you that you’ve received a text.
You snatch it off the stand next to the bed and make your way to the toilet, assuming it’s just Dave texting you something completely useless. He gets a kick out of forwarding you weird chainmail texts that will ensure your death if you don’t sent it to at least ten different people. He also likes to send you pictures of random shit in sepia tone with ironic statements underneath.
Surprisingly, the text is from someone you don’t already have stored in your phone. Your contacts list is embarrassingly short, so you can’t imagine who managed to get a hold of your number.
Of course it’s who you think it is. If it were any other way your life just wouldn’t be ironic enough, now would it? You sigh and drop your cellphone on the table beside your bed, and even the loud clattering noise of your phone hitting metal isn’t enough to ward off the unease that’s settled into your stomach.
You have a list of people a mile long you definitely don’t want to hear from in any format: textual, aural, verbal, or otherwise. Jake ditched-you-when-you-started-chemo English is at the very tippy, precariously high top.