Brain tumors
Thankfully, i am always premeditating the demise of my own psyche, over the course of an unbearable, decades-long warble of crashing demonic tritones. Like how being too neurotic about dumb shit over the course of too many years will cause a plaque to form on specific neurons, causing certain brain cavities and eventual unreplenishment of former genius abilities, revealing itself in the gradual increasing tendency for spelling and punctuation errors, in written communications to family and friends and the public at large, which are decreasing in frequency, breadth and insight, incidentally.
This would all hint to a brain tumor at the age of thirty-one, or sooner, of course. One of those "you've got six months to live, before you die, champ!" moments.
And then you would be dead, and not even being able to think about how no one would give a shit about the facts of you having ever existed. Except for some fleeting moments in the lives of ongoing friends and family, or children, if there were any, wherein they have some passing interest on some particular day when they are not busy going grocery shopping, and would like to investigate into what kind of person you were, before the tragic death. But then, eventually, they would also be dead, and maybe then you would have grandchildren with a similar fleeting interest, far into the future but not That far, and then after they are dead it is certain that no one would care in the least acceptable amounts, you will only be a name typed into a futuristic family tree on the future internet, maybe on Wiki-FamblyTree, which some great great great grand-niece is putting together because she does not have a way with boys.
Won't someone ever cure brain tumors?
I may not have a brain tumor, yet.
5 Comments:
What do you think of John Updike?
He is most assuredly an author of revered bookss, none of which have I read.
I am reading a very thick nonfiction book about how catty geologists and physicists were, back in the days before instruments and dignity. It will probably take me a year to finish. So it goes.
That was a very short and inconsequential Vonnegut reference. If memory serves.
What do YOU think of John Updike? Or, what should I think of John Updike?
WELL. I am reading "Towards the End of Time" which is my first Updike novel, and in this novel the narrator is an old man who is obsessed with death and also with his penis, seemingly. Also it takes place in the post-apocalyptic year of 2020, which is always a ballsy thing in a novel since you know people will read it in 2020 or 1984 or whatever and judge you and you might be dead by then and not even able to tell whether you were right or not. (For example Updike guesses (in 1997) at "President Gore" and is not so right. Seemingly.)
So half the time it reminds me of you and half the time I think he is a jackass and half the time I wish he would stop talking about his penis. So, I wondered if you had an opinion about it all. I feel like I would like Updike more if I were a man because it would seem normal to spend half the time thinking about my penis. I mean maybe, because apparently men think about penises a lot. So I kind of think John Updike writes for men. But since this is my first Updike I amn't sure.
Oh sorry it is not TOWARDS the End of Time but TOWARD. I guess I put TowardS because I have been drinking the whiskeys. Seemingly.
So many penis references in this, my fambly-oriented blog.
I always wondered why novels that take place in the future (even a Whopping twenty-three years into the future) are always always "post-apocalyptic", without fail.
Aren't there any optimistic fictionists, at all?
I am going to write a novel about the year 2012, the human race has obliterated global warming and now lives in luxurious giant trees, extremist Islam has abandoned all terrorism plots except those involving tickling, but the main character will be succumbing to a brain tumor, which has silently been ravaging his once superimpressive mind. It will not be well written, and many of the words will be gobbledygook, because the author will be struggling with a brain tumor which has become the size of a bucket.
Haha. Tomorrow is exactly mid-April, and Buffalo will be getting snow.
Post a Comment
<< Home