I’ve been waiting in the pre-liver transplant clinic for an hour and a half. As the seconds tick away, every instinct in me is telling me to flee. Get the fuck out of here and pretend I’ve never been sick. Maybe find myself at a truck stop in Iowa, with a beehive and a name tag that says Mabel. Just get away from here. I changed my mind. Que sera sera. Just let me take a nap in the snow. Wake me up in a thousand years, when the liver is as redundant as the appendix. Wake me up when we’re beings of light and matter means nothing anymore. Wake me up when I can be free of this traitor body.
Hey. It could happen.