I WILL probably die on a Christmas Day.
Or some day of a great celebration like Christmas.
Because I don’t want to be fussed over.
I refuse to ruin other people’s holiday celebrations.
And in a way, I consider that a kindness.
And I take pride in thinking that I’m being kind that way.
*
We are way past over Christmas now.
So let me tell you my sorry Christmas story 2018.
On Christmas Eve, December 24, I had a gout attack.
I was in so much pain I couldn’t go to church for Midnight Mass.
And I was just there home alone crying.
Alone in my living room couch.
Couldn’t climb up the 13 steps to my bedroom.
*
I can hardly go to the bathroom to take a piss.
I can hardly take seven steps to get my pain medication.
I can hardly reach the kitchen for water to drink.
I was miserable.
And still, I was praying for world peace.
I was wishing everybody a Merry Christmas.
Was trying to ‘heart’ react to the hundreds of Christmas greetings I got on Facebook.
*
If you check my Christmas posts on Facebook, you’ll think I’m on top of the world.
Inspiring people with great thoughts, and thoughtful wishes, from December 19 to December 28.
Giving fans, and friends, reasons to smile.
No pictures of my Christmas tree.
Or holiday feast.
Or festive wardrobe.
Or gifts, fancy or otherwise.
Because I didn’t have any of those.
*
I didn’t lie about my health condition.
But I didn’t play sick to get pity either.
I wanted everyone to have a wonderful Christmastime.
I’m a good person that way. Kind. Thoughtful.
I don’t drag others down to wallow in my own misery.
*
I’m sharing this story now not to invoke your sympathy.
What good will it do for my gout now that I’ve recovered?
But there’s a lesson here somewhere.
I hope.
I mean, if I can get to it before my column space ends.
I tend to write with a lot of diversion these days.
Because I don’t want to be boring and/or preachy.
*
I don’t think gout will kill me.
I mean, I am surviving it without medication.
For years, I’m refusing to take Allopurinol to control my uric acid levels.
I refuse most medications!
(Except for the HIV prophylaxis, Truvada.
Because until I am in a monogamous relationship, I want to be protected from my “risky” sex-positive lifestyle.)
*
I am least likely to die of a violent death.
I don’t foresee car, or plane, crashes for myself.
And although I can’t totally rule out brutal crimes, I’m pretty sure I’ll give thugs a good fight.
If someone tries to kill me, I’ll probably kill them first.
I mean, can you see me bleeding to death as I blow the lights out of some nincompoop?
Of course, I can be assassinated.
But I have to be really important to merit an “assassination”, don’t you think?
*
In most likelihood, I’ll die of old age.
In bed.
Preferably with a lover.
Or several lovers, if my harem plans become a reality.
None of those breathy, sad, dramatic farewells.
I want to die of exhaustion.
But with a smile on my face.
*
It will be a while before I die.
I’m only 50, and I feel younger than ever.
I mean, I force myself to feel younger.
I psych myself up to it.
I do what teenagers do.
I f*ck like a teenager.
I f*ck teenagers when I can.
Observing the legal age of consent in whichever country, or state, I find myself horny. Of course!
*
Point of this article?
Ah, death by pride.
Death with pride.
Proud death.
I don’t want to die needy.
Or fussed about.
I don’t need your pity.
*
Another point: Keep your misery to yourself.
I hate that people complained they didn’t feel the Christmas spirit during the holidays.
They were so messed up because they didn’t have lavish feasts, and new clothes, new shoes.
That their godparents didn’t give them gifts.
Ef all of that!
I had a miserable Christmas.
And I survived it.
It’s 2019, and I’m still here!
Be grateful, people. (500tinaga@gmail.com/PN)
