I was diagnosed with cancer this morning. Which should of come as no surprise, since I’ve been smoking cowboy killers since I was 14. But I wasn’t expecting to find out I have Leukemia. Fucking Hell, my own blood is trying to kill me. Here’s the kicker, due to an ongoing custody battle, PTSD and the loss of the woman I love, I’ve been suicidal for months now. I always look for her instinctively when something important happens. Memories just aren’t worth having if you can’t share them with the one you love. 

I’m just your average guy, got a few screws loose, I guess.

Define irony (n): Being suicidal and finding out you’ve been diagnosed with cancer. Well, that’s as convenient as it is ironic. There’s an upside though. Getting cancer frees up your schedule for things you’ve always put off. There’s no real point in sitting through another paralyzingly boring 8 hour day of putting up with shit from people when you’re not going to be around long enough to worry about job security or a retirement. It lets you experience new things, like skydiving or robbing your first bank. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? I always have cancer to fall back on. Yep, these are exciting times to be dying.

What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll get cancer?

Before I was diagnosed, I was so depressed, all I wanted to do was sleep. When I got up in the morning, I’d debate whether I should have a cup of coffee or kill myself. I still do that, but now I have more inspirational options besides coffee. And I don’t have to give a fuck…about anything. I can say whatever I want and do whatever I want, because filters are for people who fear consequences. Besides, people let you get away with murder once they know you’re dying. Getting cancer is kind of like a superpower. 

Laughing at life’s adversities — even cancer — is hardwired into me. I’ve grown accustomed to wearing my sarcasm like armor. As someone who may not have long to live, I’d hate to think I’ll never laugh again. The dark humor makes me feel better for whatever reason.

They say diet and willpower are the keys to surviving cancer. Seeing as I obviously don’t have the latter, at least there’s never any fucking food in my house, so I won’t accidentally survive this shit. All jokes aside, I will definitely punch the next ignorant twit that says “everything happens for a reason.” In my time overseas, I saw young men with their arms and legs ripped off, their bodies all burned up. But like a wise man once said “there is nothing like the sight of an amputated spirit. There is…no prosthetic for that.”

My daughter asked me why Jesus is letting me die, and I told her “because he’s an asshole.” Of course, I’m an asshole too, but I’m not a hypocrite about it. I’ve done bad things, but usually to worse people. I totally deserve cancer, for a lot of reasons, and I’m glad it’s happening to me and not someone who deserves to live a long, happy life, free of chemo, baldness and all that jazz. 

There’s a point in here somewhere.

But I do think I’ve earned the right to be an asshole, and I’ll try to use my newfound superpower of charming jackassery for good, telling hardass jokes for justice and saying what everyone else is thinking. I’m not the hero you want, I’m the asshole you deserve. And for anyone reading this that’s struggling with depression, the moral of my story is this: don’t wait until you’re dying to find out what makes you happy. Find the joy in your life, my friend. As always, subscribe to PewDiePie, lads (I’m gonna start saying that everytime I’m about to do something awesome).



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