2025 Dying Roger January
Death is bad for your health. That’s the line. It started with the usual warnings—don’t drown, don’t fall off a cliff. I twisted it: “Don’t die, it’s bad for your health.” Roger took it further: “Please don’t die… it’s not good for your health.” We laughed for five minutes straight. Just chewed on the absurdity of it—mothers, idiots, both hollering at you not to drink the damn Kool-Aid. Like you don’t know better.
Roger called me this morning—mourning, always fits. His parents have the real problems. Their bodies falling apart, flushing nothing, but still giving him unsolicited advice. Meanwhile, I’ve got arthritis taking over my body, a slow, cruel invasion. But we laughed at it all. His folks’ mess, my aches, our collective misery. Shared laughter makes the pain bearable, makes the day start with something close to hope.
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