  Nothing new or exciting happening here. Well, I might be going bald, but we'll see. In lieu of crap about my life I usually write, here is another excerpt from my writing endeavors.
It was just an excercise, no purpose required. What I had to do was write an almost-fight, you know, those discussions that come close to arguements, or those arguements that come close to fights. Enjoy. It seems to me that we are always in the car when a "discussion" happens. I�m driving.
�You know how horrible it is,� He�s looking at me. �Yes, I know that it kills you a bit slower than the disease, but I grew up around it, and it gives a person a chance.� I drive up to the intersection, give a three count at the stop sign. I think the conversation is over. It is not. �Well, actually, there is no causal evidence linking chemotherapy or radiation with eradication of the illness. When I worked at the funeral home, the cancer patients were always the worst; the insides of them were usually rotting.� �Enough.� I turn a corner, pass a car.
�But it wasn�t the cancer that was doing the rotting. It was the treatment.� I stop at another intersection. �All right, enough. I know what the treatment does to people,� I can see him in my periphary. I know what he�s going to say. The funeral home. More grisly examples. �Shut up.� His mouth closes. �I also know what happens to people when they don�t get treatment. They die. Every single one of them.
That ten year old kid in Mexico who was on the news for refusing treatment, My grandfather. Sally�s father, a woman I grew up with. These people refused treatment, and folded under six months, some in three. I�m sorry I shut you up, you were saying?� He nods, I hold his hand for a moment, at the red, let go when I shift up. �I�m saying, personally, I wouldn�t do it. It doesn�t matter I guess, I�m not likely to get cancer.� �I can�t marry you.� I say, missing no beats.
My brain flickers, checking for truth. It finds it, and I wonder how I could live with out him. �What?� He�s looking at me. �Think about it for a second. We�re married, you get cancer. You refuse treatment, you die. I�m sorry for thinking this, but where does that leave me, then?� �That isn�t fair,� he trails off, and is silent longer than a song on the radio. I ask what he is thinking, and he tells me he just reversed the situation. I now have cancer, and I refused treatment.
�I�d want you to try,� he says simply, and touches my hand on the gearshift. �Exactly. We�re each other�s responsiblity now, aren�t we? And it is your duty, just like it�s mine, to say alive as long as possible.� He nods. I touch his face, by his ear, at the stop light. I think the conversation has ended. This time, I am right. 
