The real issue with dying is that it’s a one-shot deal. No dress rehearsal, or try before you buy. And you don’t get second helpings. If you did, that’d stop all the greedy cunts queuing up for it. And man, lots and loads and hunnerz queue. Some skip the queue and beg for it, hoping a death dealer stalks the queue and can fuck their arteries up for them or burst some vessels and veins. I had decided not to die. The only problem was that I made the decision too late.
Procrastination can be an issue.
It pays to procrastinate in some things, but that market bet doesn’t yield big payouts every time you try it. My death stock fluctuated until light hit my eyes, and my ears confirmed the price.
“What do you mean I won’t walk again?” I don’t think the doctor heard me. I don’t think Mhairi heard me. Mostly because the pub was so far away. Nurse McWorker knew I was having a go at the doctor, but she just whirled the shut-up-a-mi-gig, and I shut up. You have to hand it to these medical types and their gizmos; these guys and gals get good engineering. Their stuff works, is functional, and has an excellent array of ways to shut you up. Check this out: she only woke me back up again. I rated her as an impossible nine through irritated irises. Fuck knows what she was saying, but I reckon it was high time me and her got a house, moved in, made replicas of ourselves and shopped online for Christmas presents for each other. I’d get her all her Amazon wishlist, even though she just wanted two things.
What am I like?
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