The wrong way to take cancer news
Hello America. From my stories it is clear that in the past, before my quest to be a Gentleman, I made a ton of really really bad decisions. They were wrong, childish, sex fueled, always seemed to evolve more drugs then sense, funny as hell and embarrassing as shit. So lets tune in.
Now one day my buddy says, “hey, dude you have a lump on your lip.” Now me being the womanizing, dollar throwing, drink buying, 23 year old, I am, I thought I had gotten a souvenir if you know what I mean. So I go to the doctor for my shots. Tragically when I go to the doctor he try’s to tell me that the lump may be cancer and I should get checked out. Enter the five stages of denial. Stage one Anger. “Fuck you doctor, what do you know, you work at patient first fuck you I’m gone.” (If your reading this by the way I’m sorry Doc) I drive down the road to the best, most expensive hospital in town. The spot where all the rich people go. I have a 1,000 dollars cash ready to have a doctor saw off my lip. I rush into the emergency room and when I have to fill out the form I put cancer in the list problems. The woman looks at me funny and lets me talk to a doctor. Now I was impressed by how fast the doctor saw me, until he gave his prognosis.
Now this cancer expert says this to me after simply touching my lip. “Yeah that’s cancer.” Stage two of denial bargaining. I reply with “Cut it out man its just my lip here’s a grand lop the whole thing off if you need to.” He says he can’t I have to go to the specialist, but it normally takes weeks to get an appointment. He finishes his diagnosis with saying, “And it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get your affairs in order, what do you think you’ll do now?”
I think to myself this fucking doctor just had the balls to tell me I might die, and to make plans. He is now curious to see what I will say and how I will react. What a prick. I thought long and hard how to reply to this and I said the following. “I’m going to get an ounce of the dankest, skunkiest purple bud in this city, an eight ball of the most face numbing teeth gnashing blow, have my fuck buddy meet me at my house and either die from a sex or drug overdoes tonight.”(Probably not a good idea) I watched my Dad die in bed it’s not for me. He looks at me with a curious look on his face and simply says, “pretty good that’s the best I’ve heard.” The nurse behind him was speechless the entire time but smiled as soon as I mentioned my fuck buddy and die fucking. You could tell she was wondering if she writes that in the chart and she looked at the doctor who shook his head.
I left the hospital in stage three of denial, depression. Convinced of my own mortality I jumped into my five speed BMW sports edition and floored it. I’m driving one hundred and fifty miles an hour on a two lane road with the music cranked as I smoke weed and call my fuck buddy to meet me at my house, telling her just that I got bad news from the doctor. I stop at my dealers house spend the grand and head home. I get home before her and jump in the shower because I’ve been sweating bullets all day. I finish my shower just in time to see her coming into my bedroom looking damn fine and ready to go. We get into bed I spark a joint and she says so what’s the STD. I reply with “STD what you were still going to fuck me.” She replies, “With well your good in bed and sadly if you have it so do I.” I thought good point on both fronts and told her I have cancer in my lip. A wave of relief washes over her and she starts blowing me. Life does have its perks.
I smoke my joint as I’m getting blown thinking of all the great sex I will be missing out on and all the woman who will not get to know how many orgasms they can achieve in one night. And all the Sailing that will never happen. And the crazy sex begins. Pound, pound, pound, missionary, pound pound pound doggy style line off her back. I plowed it like a field. I fucked it on the bed, on the floor on the wall, in the sex swing. She did lines off my cock and I did them off her back as I fucked her from behind. I even tied it up, gauged it, whipped it, paddle it and ravaged it till she couldn’t walk from ecstasy. She was kinky as hell and I liked it. I just kept fucking, kept snorting and smoking to a point it could be considered attempted suicide by drugs, sex, and techno.
The sun came up, we had done most of the drugs. Both us just lay speechless, exhausted, not believing the incredible sex we just had and how awkward our situation was. Her numb from the hair down from sex over load still wearing a collar and cuffs with the taste of salt in her mouth. Me covered in sweat, naked, possibly having my tenth heart attack of the night and cancer in my lip. And now in stage four, acceptance, a sad realization that I had survived my attempted sexicide. It dawned on me I had shit to do.
For the exciting conclusion read my post Cancer Surgery