I’m going to listen to classical music and fill out this Voicing My Choices packet, which is basically “this is what I want to happen while I’m lying in a hospital bed dying because my lungs are one huge mass of cancer”. It’ll be great.

Fuck this. Fuck everything. Fuck my life decisions. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. I don’t want to die, but then I think about trying to hold onto this whole “fighting cancer” thing for even longer, and it’s already been four goddamn years and I can’t imagine doing this. I can’t imagine fighting it like someday I’ll ever beat it. It hurts too much to hope like that. I don’t want to die. Not like this. I’d rather commit suicide, but I don’t want to die alone. But I might stab myself in the face if I have to go through an entire packet of what music I want played while I die, and who I want around while I die, and whether or not they should leave the room if they’re crying while I’m dying, and what goddamn food I want to eat while I die. I guess stabbing myself in the face would take care of all the above problems though. So that might be a viable option after page three of this.

Our lease is up in May. We don’t have a new place lined up yet. Because it’s stupidly hard to find a place to rent that is even remotely handicap accessible, allows a cat, and is cheap as fuck so my sister can afford it by herself when I die. Right. I love worrying about how my sister is going to get by when I die with her lifetime’s worth of student loans to also pay off. I love planning my own death. It’s been nothing but laughs.