Wednesday, September 10, 2003

Your Boring, Terminally Ill Boyfriend Day!

What. A. Fucking. Ripoff.

Of all the guys you've dated, the architects, the archaeologists, the lifeguards, it had to be Count Yawnsalot that ended up in a deathbed. This kid wouldn't know how to die if he took a Learning Annex class called, "Dying With Such A Flourish That Your Girlfriend Never Screws Another Dude Again."

"Isn't there anything you want to apologize for or anything you don't want to leave unsaid?"

"Um, I love you. Do you think there's anything I need to apologize for? If so, I apologize."

Fucking hell. Of course he has nothing to apologize for. He doesn't even hit. And all these years he said "I love you" more than he farted. "I love you" was the blanket he put you under so as to avoid having to focus on on anything specific about you.

"You must be pretty angry right now. About dying I mean. You must be furious."

"Luck of the draw I guess."

Fucking hell. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, he once said when you brought up the topic of you two trying to fuck differently. To him, presents were always sweaters and gold necklaces. He was a kind, generous man who would've given you anything you asked of him if it was within his grasp. An example of something that's not within his grasp: A refusal of all visitors, including yourself, for 23 days in an effort to say fuck you to the world and everything he ever cherished during his time upon it, before of course making a shaky peace with his fate and welcoming his loved ones to say goodbye, occasionally lashing out at them for not knowing what it's like to spend a night alone in his hospital room.

"I'm sure glad you're here with me. It really makes the time go by faster. Hey did you remember to put my baseball cards up on Ebay?"

"Mm hmm."

Fucking hell. To think, when he first told you he would be spending the rest of his life in the hospital, you imagined climbing atop his cancer-ravaged body in the dark, working for hours, days even to arouse an erection from him and guiding his body into yours for one final moment of utmost love. But some douche gave him Scattergories and now he's hooked. You love him to death but Christ almighty can't he give you some kind of drama that'll keep you locked up in bed for a few weeks after he's gone? Most girls don't get to watch a boyfriend die more than two or three times in a lifetime, and look how this one's being squandered away with a bunch of slightly tender moments he fucking laughing at Will and Grace? Pretend to cry again and get the hell out of there for a little while.

"Are you okay honey?"

"I think I need some air. I'm just gonna miss you is all."


Aww fuck off.

Happy Your Boring, Terminally Ill Boyfriend Day!