Dear MS

Dear MS,

You should have killed me when you had the chance. You had time, before we noticed the lesions enhance. You could have fled, or slowed down, or otherwise been smart. Now I’m going to tear you apart. I’m not a warrior — I’m a worrier, but like Khrushchev said: I am going to bury you. I will outlive you. I am going to crush you.

You had me on the fucking ropes. You dashed all my hopes. You could have really won. But I gave my father my gun. I’m not going out that way. At least not today. Now it’s personal — and yeah, perhaps personifying my errant immune system is unwise. But you really screwed up, mother fucker. I’m coming for you now, and I’m angry.

You thought you could take my vision — as if I would let that sit? You’re already dead you just know it. The bullet fired from the gun, its in transit. You little bitch. You thought you could just crawl into my brain and make my arms and eyes twitch — thought I would I’d just let it be as you destroyed my career, my sight, you thought I’d quit?

No. Now this means war — and I’m not usually one to fight. But you took my sight, fucked up my life, and have stressed out my wife. Now I’m on drugs — the prices would make a stock broker blush, and they don’t give me a rush, but they will stomp you to death. Like I said, I’m coming for you — right after this nap.

Sincerely, me.