This fucking country has become Sparta where the poor and the poorly insured will be cast on the mountain side to die with the other cripples.

My death will probably help sell my art. Finally, after all the years I'll bring the fucking bacon home to my wife and kids. Too bad I won't get to enjoy the BLT's with them.

Fucking glad chemo hasn't yet fucked with my ability to enjoy my wife's fabulous cooking! I've read so much shit on food and cancer. And cancer's probably growing the size of Godzilla on this great food. To that I say, Fuck it! Pass me another helping.

"Smelling the roses" is that overused cliche phrase to slow down and enjoy the show. Or something like that. I suspect every optimistic advice giving brochure contains some variation of it. I think it can be taken quite literally. Flowers smell nice. Flowers look nice. I love flowers. In my yard. And in my house. I love smelling the roses.

Why does that fucking hearse keep showing up on my street?

I always saw myself as someone who didn't waste time. Or at least didn't like to waste it (sometimes it has a way of slipping by). And I always thought I did a good job of prioritizing. But terminal cancer has a way of putting some serious fucking emphasis on that! You've got a deadline, my friend. A serious fucking DEADline!

Well, here it is. My cancer blog.