So, here's what I hope:

I'm sitting around with my band peeps and we're laughing and drinking and we just got finished with a good night of music—like tonight—and maybe it's after a gig or just a rehearsal (like tonight) and someone says:

"Hey, slatts, weren't you suppose to be dead three years ago?"

Hemorrhoids and CANCER and blood clots and blood thinners is fuckin' gawd-awful combination!

I could fucking die tonight and I will know I was in Heaven before I did.

Nothing beats a good Music Night with the full band.

I LOVE you Walter Mittys!!!

So, I take it the effects of my last chemo dose must be over.

I woke up this morning only feeling like I had been hit by a bus and not like I had been dropped off a twenty-story building.

And hit by a fucking bus!

CANCER has killed my band.

The dreaded C-word has taken the C-word of COMMITMENT and replaced it another C-word, CANCELLATION.

I'm so depressed that CANCER has killed the one thing I so truly enjoy. It's killed my music

It's fucking killed my band!

So, right now, I'm in the "best shape" I've been since my diagnosis.

What does this mean?

The eye of the hurricane? The calm before the fucking storm?

"I've got time."

That's not really something I can say. In fact, it's quite the opposite.

And if you've been reading this blog and my other online Journal—or you know me personally—you know TIME is an important thing to me and wasting it is a "crime" in my book.

Yet, I can sit here in the yard and 'babysit' my cat while she stalks a bird or just sits herself and enjoys the shade, and I can be quite content with that.

Not a waste of time, at all.

So, let it be noted, if I were to go into a fucking choking fit, right here, and fall over in my chair and die—I'd be quite OK with that.

'Just watching my cat.