Me and my friend Chris, over at Griffin Writes, had a conversation a few months ago about life and why we even bother with it sometimes. What keeps us from giving up when things get hard and it all seems hopeless. Why we even bother to get up in the morning and grind out another day working towards some abstract dream that may or may not come true. So we decided to write about it and this is what came out. Griffin is in bold, hope you enjoy.

The sun lights up a clear blue sky outside my office window but all I see is gray, as though my pupils have been smeared with ash. Five stories below, the people filling the busy sidewalk seem so insignificant. My observation doesn’t come from a point of superiority because I’m definitely no better than them. I’m much worse. Pedestrians jostle for concrete – their sense of urgency seemingly dependent on the immediacy of their aimless goals. What’s the point?

It’s another Friday night. All the status updates on my facebook talk about parties, bars or concerts. It’s the weekend and everybody is having fun. Everybody but me. I’m home on my computer with my nurse and fighting with my brother over the television. I give up and let him watch Rush Hour for the billionth time. I put on the headphones and completely tune out the world around me. I need to connect with someone, anyone really. I need company, companionship, someone that wants to be with me. I need some social fucking interaction. So I go looking for it. I go on dating websites and message girls. Hi, I’ll say. No response. How are you, I ask. Still no response. Fuck it. What are you wearing? Nothing. Are you horny? Silence. Are you wet? Blank. Please talk to me. I wouldn’t talk to me either, much less when I talk like this. Why do I do this to myself? They want tall, dark and handsome; Not short, weak and crippled. It all feels so hopeless.

An older man in a suit emerges from his Mercedes. I assume his suit is expensive. Maybe he earned his money busting his ass as a young entrepreneur. Or maybe he’s strained all available credit to maintain appearances. Is he on his way to an important business meeting or to cheat on his wife? Perhaps he bought stock at the right time, or got a lucrative bonus for his decades of dedication to some corporate empire. No matter, he’s still over fifty years old. Is he happy? Is he fulfilled? What’s left for him? In thirty years he’ll be dead. Another half century after that, he’ll probably be forgotten.

And here I stand, furrowed lines running across my brow. I don’t have the motivation to blink, not due to fatigue but more out of apathy. The numbness provided by not caring is a necessary defense mechanism to quell the emotions that boil underneath. Rage and depression against the unjust battle that is life. Yet as much as I try to suppress the storm, I know it’s there. Deep breaths and hollow thoughts form a precarious barrier as serotonin levels plummet. Reason attempts to plug the holes in the dam but every once in a while a thought trickles through.

And it’s during these times when there’s no school to do, when there’s no one I can call to come over, that my mind starts to wander. I have wretched thoughts. I get feelings of utter hopelessness and I wonder what the point of all my fighting is. It seems like the harder I struggle, the quicker I sink. So these ideas start to creep into the edges of my mind. They dance in and out into the ether. Then they start to stay longer and longer and they grow . They grow to consume my thoughts. I start to think about how I could do it. Drive into the pool? No, I don’t like drowning. Driving off a sidewalk won’t guarantee it, but stairs would do the trick. I know it’s ridiculous and I would never do it. I’m too scared of the nothingness that waits for me on the other side. But they’re there all the same. It’s almost like a twisted fantasy that I don’t enjoy. I have no social life to speak of and I’m a huge burden on my family. They’d cry for a few days, but they’d be okay in the long run. And then I realize how much of a chickenshit thing that would be.

You work hard for nothing. Countless hours spent staying awake all night and into the morning hours until the sun rises again. Pounding away at a keyboard trying to gain an edge in life. The entire friends list on my chat program reads offline. Nobody awake to snap me out of my funk. I’m probably working myself into an early grave. Worse yet, there’s a very good chance that I’m doing it all for nothing. Just another chump. Maybe I should get some sleep… no, one more hour of work. Ignore the inner monologue and trudge on.

Give in. It’s so much easier to stick with your nine-to-five and be content. Waking up for work the next morning is torture. It feels like only seconds ago I was pulling the blanket over my eyes to shield the morning’s first signs of light. Now the glare is apparent through the blanket. Extreme agitation overwhelms my thoughts. I want nothing but sleep. Every noise, every sense I experience irritates me to vicious extremes. A moment before the screaming inferno inside me consumes my sanity, I stomp a defiant foot on the carpet beside my bed. I know if I can make it to the shower, I’ll get through another day at work, only to deprive myself of sleep once again by staying up into the morning hours.

You’re not special. Your struggle is no different than anyone else. Deadlines at work have piled up. The last article I posted on my website was garbage. I bombed at the comedy club. People in my life feel rejected because I don’t make time for them. I claw at my hair, my body hunched over my desk. I grab the mouse and pound it against the pad. What’s the fucking point? The web of mediocrity only ensnares me more as I thrash around to escape it. My selfish pursuits are detrimental to everything and everyone around me. I bury myself in work to avoid confronting an undesirable reality. I seek validation on a stage like a fiend. Laughter from strangers that rushes through me buzzing in every cell, only to leave me hopelessly deflated a few hours later. The frightening part is that in all likelihood, I’m way too late. I’m approaching thirty. There comes a time to stop fighting and rebelling. My drinking is out of control. I spend a third of my life drunk and another third battling hangovers so severe that I can barely think or speak. Hell, I’m probably concocting this whole “fighting the system” farce to support my blossoming alcoholism. It wont be long until I’m an isolated, washed up drunk. How often do I justify being a shitty person in the name of “chasing a dream?” It’s more like running from a nightmare. You worthless piece of fucking shit.

Death would be so easy. An official end to a fruitless march, a literal final nail in the coffin. Nothing awaits me beyond this life. Why don’t I get it over with sooner? A kid in my high school class tied a bunch of socks together and hung himself from a ceiling fan. There’d probably be a moment of panic, but I’m sure the overwhelming understanding that the war is finally over would bring tranquility. Better yet, I could step off a building’s rooftop. Every journey begins with a single step; this miserable journey could end with one more. And then nothing. So simple. All these experiences and frustrations summarized in a single act. Fuck it all.

I’ve scrapped and struggled to get ahead, never taking the easy way out. When my high school counselor told me I wasn’t going to graduate on time, I worked day and night to make up 30+ credits in just six months. I graduated about a month early. I worked myself sick (literally) for three years to get into a good school. I’ve constantly adapted to losing strength, not being able to eat and not being able to breathe. And to just end it because things got a little too hard is bullshit. It’d be an admission of defeat. That the world gave me more than I could handle. I’m too proud to ever admit that. Besides, feeling something is better than eternal unconsciousness. This brief spark of consciousness is all we have. When it’s gone, it’s gone for good. To just extinguish it because things got a little tough is not only a waste, but a crime against the very universe that created us.

Even after I tell myself all these things, they’re still there. They mock me, tempt me and tell me how worthless I am. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope that it’ll get better. That when I get to UCLA I’ll be able to start over and get things the way I want them. Then, maybe, I’ll be happy. Maybe then, I’ll be normal. Well, that’s not entirely why I keep going, it’s not the whole truth. I have this drive, this hunger to be great. The only way I can explain it is… you know when you’re at a great concert, or reading a great book, and you’re just hanging on the artist’s every word? That moment where you absolutely worship him and would do anything he asked you to? And for that moment, he’s the most important person in your universe. He is your God. That’s what I want. I want people to love me and worship me because of what I make. I need their adoration because I’m just an insecure little boy. I’ve been rejected by so many girls that all I want at this point is some validation.

I got to thinking about this – not the actual suicide, but the why’s of suicide – because my buddy Raul mentioned he entertains the thought. We’re reasonable people, so other people must have similar feelings. Here is a guy who suffers from muscular dystrophy, and by some medical accounts, could have met his expiry date a decade ago. Yet, he’s fighting the good fight everyday against odds that 99% of the population, including myself, will never understand. After making it this far, it strikes me as ludicrous that he’d give up now. Why would such a thought occur in the first place? A dozen or more answers come to mind, but among all of them is that we care. Paradoxically, wanting more during our finite lifespan causes us to consider terminating it, especially when the odds against us achieving what we desire are bordering on insurmountable.

But what if it doesn’t work out? What if I die miserable and alone? My body can decide to shit the bed and there’s nothing I can do. I know there’s a very slim chance I’ll ever have what I want. A girl, kids and being able to provide for them. All while being a published author and working with computers. I look at all the people around me and they’re all so normal. The cute couple that live in they’re own world, the group of college friends that are having a night out. They’re all tall and young and have it so easy. And as I watch them, the embodiment of everything I’ll never be, I wonder if they have the same thoughts.

Nobody sees or cares about an individual’s struggle. They only look at the results. There have been many before me that have overcome far greater odds to achieve success. I want what they have and I want it now, but that’s not how it works. More importantly, that’s not even the point. The point is to earn your rewards so that there is substance. Sure, buying the shell of a Lamborghini would look pretty, but what you really want are the guts inside. What’s under the hood will actually take you places.

They can’t, they’re too perfect. Them with their social lives and significant others. Them with their able bodies and perfect health. I once heard in a song that everything looks perfect from far away. Maybe that’s the case, but they’re looking pretty good from up close too.

There are stories of those who flatline only to receive a second chance at life. They insist upon the existence of whatever god they believe in as the DMT flooded their brains before the oxygen cut off. Maybe there is more to this life. If there’s one thing science has proven, it’s that we cannot even begin to grasp the complexities that surround us. The world is a remarkably interesting place. So many possibilities all out there for those willing to take them.

That’s what I’m trying to do here, be like them. And I understand that that may never happen, but that’s okay; I’ll still try. Even if I’m never like everyone, if I can carve out a little niche for myself then I think I can be happy. That’s not really all that different from anyone else, though. We’re all trying to find our place in the world, not everyone finds it, that’s just how life is. It’s the people that do that are the lucky ones, and hey, maybe I’ll be one of those select few. I’m sure everyone wishes that.

The truth is that these lows exist because we’ve made the decision to care. Four years ago, I decided that simple contentment wasn’t enough. Working during the week, watching television at night and relaxing over the weekend wont do. I need more. Despite all the hardships and moments of psychosis, searching for passion has its advantages. The highs when something finally clicks brought about by hundreds of hours of work perhaps only to exist for a minute make it all worthwhile. The trick is to find a way to take all that negative bullshit and funnel it into worthwhile endeavors. Convert it, and send it outwards to attack the world. It’s the hunger that propels you through the nights. The desperation that fuels you when nobody else is around to see it or care. The fury that makes you give a damn when everything is so bleak.

Now that I think about it, I’m not all that different after all.

Now, what follows next is very gross. If you’re eating, recently ate or have a weak stomach you should not look at these pictures. They’re of my gnarly infected toenail that they had to remove. If, like me, you have a morbid curiosity about gross things then scroll down. If not, you’ve been warned.

Without further ado, welcome to Toejam 2010:

This is before the surgery.

I call it Bob

Right after they injected it with anesthesia

Doctor working on it.

The part of the nail they took out.

And this is five days later.

I have a feeling it’s not supposed to look like that. This probably isn’t over.

We have posted admission decisions on our website. You can view our decision at [url].

Sincerely,

UCLA Admissions

That email made my heart race. I was suddenly scared to know. I’d been aiming for UCLA ever since I started community college.. I figured it was the right mix of challenging and fun. It was also just far enough from home that I could stand on my own. Now that the day was finally here, all I could think was, “That’s how they let you know? One of the defining moments in my life and they don’t have the decency to tell me in the email?” I stared at the log in button wondering what was on the other side. Even if they rejected me, I still had four other acceptance letters from four decent schools. But none of them represented what UCLA. If I got in, it would prove to myself that I could accomplish anything I wanted to. And I wanted to live in the dorms at UCLA. There’d be people my own age that I’d be forced to interact with. And yeah, it’d be like that at all the other colleges, but there was something about that school that drew me in. Whenever someone would ask me what my plans were I’d say UCLA. And they’d always get this look. Like they thought I was aiming too high or something. Getting in would prove all the doubters wrong. And now all I had to do was click a button.

Click

All I saw was a banner that said congratulations. I didn’t feel happiness as much as a sense of huge relief. The only way I can explain it is that feeling you get when you pee after you’ve been holding it for three hours. You no longer have to worry about pissing your pants anymore and you can finally relax. I didn’t cry or squeal or anything of the sort, I just relaxed. Then I told my parents. My mom screamed and jumped, my dad tousled my hair and told me I did a good job. My mom told everyone she knew.

It never really sank in for me, though. It still hasn’t in a way. I don’t think it really will until I’m completely moved out. I still don’t completely believe it myself. I’ve lived here all my life, this house is all I’ve really known. Living somewhere else, on my own, doesn’t even register in my mind. I haven’t even slept over at a friends house since I was 12. The only time I’ve slept anywhere else has been one or two weeks vacations every year, all of them with my family. And I’m really really scared, but I have to do it.

My family has been supportive the whole time. I always told them what my plan was and, while they always expressed skepticism, it was always implied that they would support me financially. I even remember a time I expressed concern at how I was gonna pay for all the costs to my dad. He responded by telling me not to worry because he had some money saved up for my education. It was a pleasant surprise, since I expected to be buried in debt. I think his exact words where “Don’t worry about the money, I’ve got that covered.” I operated under that assumption for the rest of the time in community college.

About a week after I accepted UCLA’s offer, I got a call from my dad.

“We need to talk.” he said.

“Uh… okay. What’s up?”

“I’ll talk to you this weekend.”

“But what about?”

“You can’t go to UCLA. I got to go, talk to you later.”

I just shrugged it off. It wasn’t really his choice and I would ease any fears he had. But I forgot how impossible it is to get through to him. He didn’t really talk to me as much as he lectured me.

“If you stay here and go to UCSD I’ll buy you a car and help you pay for everything. We’ll get you nurses and you can live in the dorms. But it’s not fair to us if you go to UCLA. We would have to drive there all the time to train nurses.”

“I’m not asking you to and I don’t expect you to.”

“But we want to. We’re not gonna leave you there to die. What happens if there’s an emergency and you go to the hospital? We can’t leave your brother to go to the hospital with you.”

“Then don’t.”

“We’re not just gonna leave you there in the hospital. We take care of our own. How many times has a dumb nurse almost killed you there? We can’t leave you. That’s why you have to stay at UCSD. If you go to UCLA, don’t expect any help from me. No money, no car. If you need help in any way, don’t count on me for it.”

I didn’t push the issue any further at that point. There wasn’t gonna be a nurse that day and I needed to keep things civil. But I was baffled by his contradiction. He doesn’t want to leave me, but he’ll cut me off if I don’t do what he wants? It does not compute. The worse part is that he sealed the deal right there. If I was gonna stay it had to be because I wanted to. Not because I wanted to appease my parents or was strong armed into it. I’d resent my parents for it and hate myself for taking the easy way out.

So I sat down with both of them later that week. I explained my reasons and said that my choice was made.

“I don’t agree with it.” said my dad, “I’m not supporting it in any form.”

“Okay.” I said with tears in my eyes. And that was that. My mom said she’d do what she could, but my dad is the one with the money. All those times he told me I had his unconditional support, bullshit. Intellectually, I knew there’s no such thing as unconditional anything, really. But I never thought my parents would ever have a good reason to and I certainly never thought either of my parents would do it. Any last bit of hero worship I had for him died at that moment. The times when he held me up and dragged me around the living room playing soccer with my brother. Going on all those dangerous roller coasters he took me on. Taking me to game 4 of the 1998 world series on my birthday and getting an autographed Greg Vaughn baseball. All those memories I have of him were completely overshadowed by him basically disowning me. It didn’t matter how many times he told me he still loved me, I wanted to jump him.

All my life I’d seen him as dad. Dad is superhuman. And despite any problems we had with each other, there was still a part of me that saw him that way. That went away when he acted the way he did. Revoking his support when he knew I needed the most was the opposite of what a parent would do.

I cried and listened to sad music the whole day. I thought about how the hell I was gonna pay for all the student loans. If I didn’t need nurses and medicine and medical equipment and I could do manual labor between semesters and… if there wasn’t so many ifs. It didn’t matter, I’d told myself that I was gonna do everything I could to get to UCLA.

So I proceeded on under the assumption that I wouldn’t have his help in anyway. I kind of emotionally checked out of the relationship even though he said he still loved me. I talked to him normal like I always do, but just to keep the peace. He wouldn’t sign my FAFSA or any document that would help me financially. So I started to get in touch with the financial aid department to explain my situation. I called about five times in two weeks, but never was able to get ahold of anyone.

Fees started piling up. Housing, orientation, ID card. I took it out of my bank account. I would have to come up with $4,000 by October, and that was after I payed a $400 housing deposit. I mentioned the piling expenses to my mom.

“Ask your dad to pay for it.” She said, nonchalantly. I wondered if she remembered the situation.

“But… he won’t.” I said, confused.

“Have you asked him?”

“Well, no, but he kinda said…”

“Send him an email and tell that you heard that he changed his mind.” I was puzzled, had she talked him into it? Apparently she had. I sent him an email asking him if he had changed his mind. He never responded to the email. I asked him about it and he said he never got it. I was too proud and too afraid of what he would say to ask him in person. And I think he was too proud to say he changed his mind. But when I asked him if he could fill out a form he said okay. I don’t know what my mom told him or how she did it. Maybe he realized that his threats weren’t going to stop me.

It’s kind of hard to check back in to the relationship. What he did and how he acted really cut me deep. I was never naïve enough to think that everyone who said they believed in me did, but I thought to that if anyone did, it’d be my parents. What he did felt like a huge betrayal and it’s going to take some time for me to get over it. If I felt like I could talk to him I would. But he’s so hard headed that it’s nearly impossible to have a rational conversation with him. For now, I have to keep the peace. Any snarky remark he makes, I have to hold my tongue. If he does something I don’t like, I have to let it slide. It’s not exactly a healthy relationship, but it’s how it has to be right now. Maybe, if I play the game well enough, I’ll get where I need to go.

Dear Hotwheelz, im applyin 2 yo girlfriend application.

1st let me intraduce maself and tell you y im applyin
my momma is a
fuckin bitc she says i wont be able to get a man and i aint finna let dat cunt be write.

im not gonna waste my time lyin to u bout how great i am. my homegirl shanique sayz if u cant handle me at ma worst u dont deserve me

u naw what im sayin!!!!

LOL!!

so anywayz

im bipolar
im poor n on welfare
i eat govanmant cheese
my last boyfriend was abusive and i still cry every night
i’m depressed
i’m not in shape
im tempararily 75 pounds ova weight but i promise i plan to loose it soon
im 47 but i look 22 and feel 18 age aint nottin but a numba

u naw what im sayin!!???!
im temporarily between apartments and live wit my babby daddy
he dnt like cripplez but he gon most of da night slangin that thang nd wen he iz home he just pass out on da couch
i gotz 7 lil niggaz by 9 diffarent baby dadyz
i dont shave ma oussy
im unemployed

NOW TO DA GOOD THANGS

i enjoy long  walks on da beach

i can reed and right

im about ta get my ged

im drug and std free (PROMIZE LOL)

i figura im da best chance u got and gettin a gurl

my herpez is gon now

all the hood niggaz say i give da  best head in south atlanta
i gotz me some dubba DDS

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

SHAQUANDA

I CANT WAIT TO

MEET U

BABY ;-D

She’s obviously the best (and only *hinthint* ladies) candidate so far.

Everyone thank redbullgreygoose from www.theidiotboard.com for the entertainment.

You may ask yourself, “But why would I want to do that?”. That’s a very good question and, like any good question, it’ll be answered with another question. Have you ever been first at anything (youtube comments don’t count)? Probably not. I won first place in my 3^rd grade math bee and 2^nd grade spelling bee (H-E-A-R-T HEART, LADIES) and let me tell you, being first is awesome. You will have conquered what no one has conquered before. The Napoleon of penis, if you will. Plus, it’ll look great on your resume. Still interested? Of course you are! Simply fill out the application below and send it to therealnotfaggyhotwheelz@gmail.com along with a picture of yourself and wait for my response!

[As a side note, I'm totally in support of the gays. Some asshole already had hotwheelz when I tried to sign up. So fuck you username thief.]

1. Do you or have you ever had a penis?

2. Do you enjoy long walks on the beach? Because I can’t really walk.

3. Do you like stairs, ledges or big bumps on the road?

4. Has the holy spirit ever touched you? If so, you should really see Dr. Rob for that.

5. Do you often visit places with steep hills or very bumpy roads?

6. Describe yourself in Haiku form.

Good luck!

I can’t rely on my parents forever. They’re getting old. Their backs are giving out, they have trouble transferring me from bed to chair and they need help doing a lot of things they didn’t need help with before. Eventually they won’t be able to take care of me or themselves. I need to be able to stand on my own two feet because I don’t belong in a nursing home. That’s what happens to a lot of crippled kids, their parents don’t want to take care of them and just leave them there. There’s very little chance that anyone in one of those places ever does anything worthwhile. All they do there is survive until it’s time to die. That’s not how I want to spend my time on this rock. I want to make an impression on the world. Not because of some benevolent desire to do good, but because I want to be remembered when I’m gone. I want people to look at my life and say, “He was the fucking man.” Because, ultimately, I’m just an insecure twenty year old. I want to be accepted and validated. The only way that’s going to happen is if I prove that I can bring something to the table. My biggest fear is that I’ll die before doing anything. That’s a very real possibility for me. Any day could be my last. And I don’t mean that in a getting in a car accident kind of way. Things can go from great to shit in two minutes, and they often do. I don’t want to realize that I’m dying in thirty seconds and not have done anything worth remembering. I’ll consider my life a failure if I don’t.

I should be fucking ecstatic now that I’ve been accepted to four colleges (and waiting on two more). Don’t get me wrong I’m excited, but I’m so very scared. It used to be nothing more than an abstract concept. But, now that I’m getting close to getting what I want, I’m realizing that there’s a really good chance that I won’t make it. What happens if I get an incompetent nurse? It happens all the time, but my parents are all always there to make sure they don’t kill me. I won’t have that luxury over there. I can’t count the number of times a dumb nurse didn’t realize that I wasn’t breathing (with the alarm going off, no less). The only reason nothing happened is because someone who knew what was going on rushed in. So, unless the dumb nurse phenomena is confined to the greater San Diego area, I’m really putting myself in mortal danger.

But it still beats staying here.

I know what the easy choice would be. I also know how it ends. It ends with me on this bed, in this room, for the rest of my life. It wouldn’t be a bad life either. I have a comfy bed, food, a big screen TV with cable, satellite and surround sound and high speed internet. It wouldn’t be a very bad existence at all. The problem is that it would be completely unremarkable and I can’t take that. I have to show everyone that never took me seriously that I’m every bit as good as them. I need to show them that I’m not another cripple.

I read a story once about a twenty two year old guy in a wheelchair that was on his deathbed. I think he had MD, I’m not sure. He had wispy hair and glasses and was skinny as a stick. He looked so frail and weak. He was a virgin and never had a chance to be independent. He told his nurse about it and her and the parents bought him a hooker. All I could think about was how I don’t want to end up like that guy. No one but his parents are going to remember him and he’ll be forgotten by the world. It’ll be like he never even existed. If I end up like that, I won’t even be a cog in the machine, I’ll be a loose part clogging up the clogs.

I don’t want to be one of them. One of the cripples that everyone thinks is here to teach their family about love or some pussy shit. They call them “Angels” and then talk about how they taught people around them to “live life” at their funeral. And they say that because there’s nothing else to say about them. They were born, they suffered a lot and they died. Maybe they were a part of the cripple community where they were told they’re just like everyone else, but that’s a lie. They spent their life trying to be like everyone else and never realized that they’ll never be that way. They’ll always be different, but the trick is to embrace that difference and use it to be better than everyone else. Because at least then they’ll be respected instead of pitied.

I always try not to do medical stuff in front of people I’m not close to or comfortable with. It makes me feel embarrassed. The two big things that I don’t like doing are suctioning (oral and tracheal) and bagging. Suctioning is done by a small vacuum like machine that sucks stuff. Oral suction is when you just suction the drool that I can’t swallow. Tracheal suction is when, as you would expect, you suction the mucus out of my airway and lungs. If it builds up or coagulates and hardens then you have to get it out of there or I won’t be able to breathe. When this happens, it turns my face red and makes my eyes water. So after that happens I’m usually sucking for air, which is where the bagging comes in. If you’ve ever seen a medical show, then you’ve seen an ambu-bag. They’re the bags that the paramedics break out when they need to revive someone who’s not breathing. They stick it in their mouth and squeeze air into them. It’s basically the same thing with me except the bag plugs into the trache. You then pump air into my lungs by squeezing the bag.

In my three years in college, I’ve never gotten a girl note taker, much less a pretty one. So I was sure my luck was changing when the teacher told me that Aamani was gonna be my note taker. I’d first seen Aamani when I got to chemistry class a few minutes early. She was tutoring half the class. I couldn’t get over how pretty she was. I say pretty, not hot because there’s a big difference between a pretty girl and a hot girl. You fuck a hot girl and date a pretty girl. And she was definitely the latter. And the fact that she was smart definitely made her even more attractive. So, naturally, I wanted to impress her. I was going to do my best to appear as normal as possible. That meant no suctioning or bagging in front of her. I was gonna do my best to appear normal in front of her. It wasn’t that I liked liked her, I barely knew her. But I didn’t want to scare her away in case I did end up liking her. And I imagine seeing me with a red face and tears rolling down my cheeks can be pretty disconcerting if you don’t know what’s going on. So when I started having trouble breathing during my chemistry lab, I went outside to take care of it.

The nurse bagged and suctioned me for more than five minutes. That’s five minutes of constant pumping and sucking air in and out of my system. I could feel the tears welling up inside my eyes, but they didn’t feel like they were coming out of my eye. The thought quickly exited my mind as I focused back on being able to breathe. But try as I might, the phlegm wasn’t going anywhere unless I got to my home ventilator with the humidifier and I told fundienurse as much.

“Okay, we just need to get our stuff and we’ll go.” So we went in and FundieNurse hurriedly told Aamani that we had to go.

“Oh, that’s okay. We’re done anyway.” And FundieNurse reached for my goggles to put them back in my locker. I found out where the tears that never came out where hiding, at the bottom edge of the goggles. A miniature ocean of salty tears zigzagged their way into the corners of my mouth. Aamani furrowed her eyebrows and then let out very soft and distressed “oh” sound like she’d just seen a dead puppy on the side of the road. She looked so worried and distraught. All I wanted to do was jump up, give her a hug and tell her I was fine. But I couldn’t and I felt like shit for it. All I could manage was my best smile and a meager, “Oh, no. I’m fine.” But my best smile isn’t much. It takes all my muscle strength to give a small smile. And it killed me that I couldn’t even reassure her with something as simple as a smile. It made me feel completely helpless and useless.

I used to be able to smile fine, I’ve seen it in pictures. But now I can’t even do that. If I could’ve just given her a big smile and reassured her it wouldn’t have made me feel like it did. But I couldn’t and she looked away sheepishly as the nurse wiped my tears away.

“I’ll see you Wednesday.” she said as the nurse and I rushed out the door.