Lying in a hospital bed. It’s the needles I don’t like, things stuck into me pumping me full of chemicals. A drip. A catheter. It’s degrading really, even though I know it’s a necessity. I have a tumor. Tumor. The word itself grows in your mind. It’s growing now, inside me. I can’t feel it but I know it’s there, waiting for the chance to expand, like a fat kid’s bubble gum.
I detest it. We’ve only had a mutual relationship for four days and already I detest it. Mind you, it’s not the shortest relationship I’ve ever had. That lasted a day (his name was Colin and he looked like Eric Clapton).
I want to kill it and any acquaintances it might have made on the way. Die fucker. I’m not hosting a party.
18