Mortality is a bitch. You live and you love and you have a blast as you do these things and then you have to go. “But I’m not ready to go” you say. Too fucking bad motherfucker... POW. You are gone. Wasn’t your choice. Nothing was ever your choice. You might have thought it was but you could only control so much and what you did was largely dependent upon what was put before you. Sure then you got to choose but who is living the ideal life? Everyone can bitch. When it’s over it’s over. You hope leaving isn’t too difficult. You hope that by the end you aren’t begging to go. You hope you can slip away painless and quietly without a lot of hoopla. You hope you don’t drag anyone else down with you. You hope you don’t become too much of a pain in the ass for anyone else because, if you are lucky, there will be people who love you and those people will do what they can to make your passing as pleasant as they can possibly make it. Even if it is a burden to themselves. They will do what they can because of that dirty 4 letter word “love”. They will do what they can so that you are happy and comfortable as you slowly flow down the drain and into the sewer. Mortality is a bitch.