| Stress, man. The One True Silent Killer. Sneaks up on you in the night and slips beneath your fingernails and burrows its way into your heart and/or brain, where it solidifies into an exciting mix of yeast and TNT. But, of course, there are no warning signs. You can just pray you'll be lucky enough to wake up in the hospital bed and not The Great Whatever Comes Next...
"He's coming around!" "uh..." "Now, try to remain calm, but..." like I have a choice? "...rrrrmmm..." "...and previously unforseen complications arose, but since Dr. Beecham was in Maui at the time..." maybe i'm dead. "...'surrogate' wasn't exactly P.C. of us, sure, but..." "...gmffmgmgg..." no, i should be so lucky. i've probably half-died and gone straight back to...half-heaven? half-hell? that's, what...Vegas in January? "...not that your heart is exactly irrepairable, per se..." "Goddammit. Can you fix it or not?" "Er, well...no. You see, it's not so much that it doesn't work, really...but it's sort of...exploded." "My heart...?" "Yes." "What, just now?" "No, six years ago, actually, but you were too busy burying it under mountains of paperwork, new houses, cars, bank accounts, mortgages, memos, coffee breaks, meetings, corporate restructuring programs, kahki pants, golf clubs, minivans, piano lessons, soccer practices, and Rogaine to notice." "Ah, shit. Not again..." yeah, happens every damn time, doesn't it? |