Personal diary of a diseased madman. History, Science, Jokes, Opinions, Observations. I want to write something cool enough so I can make enough money to start my own country in South America.
There’s a woman who is going to end her life at age 29 because she is terminal. I’m 25. I’m terminal. They just don’t really know my velocity but let me put it to you like this; there are about three people that I’ve heard of and know about with a disease similar to mine. One man is dead. One man is my friend and I am the third man. The other man says he is not as bad off as I am. He has a life. He can function in society. The dead guy made it somewhere around 40 but he was a lawyer. This woman says that ending her own life will be the only dignified way to go. And for her that may be true and I support her in whatever she wants to do but as for me… Nope, not at all. The only dignified way to go is to go down swinging and cursing the world. I’m not taking any chances. If this is the thing that’s going to kill me then by God let it kill me. Let it slowly rot me away, let it destroy my mind and body but it will never ever make me give in. I will never help this disease in it’s campaign for conquest. I will fight it on the beaches, I will fight it on the landing zones, I will die in the last ditch, I will quote English leaders because that’s how I deal with things. I laugh at death. I dare it to come take me into it’s sweet embrace. But death is a fickle bitch who takes some and leaves others for no apparent reason. And as much as I may claim it and like to think it I am not God. I do not know what is behind this corner or that corner. I do not know what my disease will do. I do not know in the creative way in which I will die but I tell you this. That motherfucker better get real goddamn creative. He’s facing down an evil genius and somewhat of a psychopath. I will never give up. I will never surrender. It is not in my nature. Surrendering to my enemy this disease is a thought that I am not far removed from and one I have considered on a few occasions with a gun in my mouth and that’s why I can firmly and confidently say that assisted suicide is not for me. And I don’t want to ruin what short time this girl has on the earth by calling her names and writing things she will never read over the internet. But I am pretty sure that you know that I feel that her doing assisted suicide is kind of cowardly. She’s not forcing her disease to show what it can do. I like to keep an open mind. I like to say “Oh you’re going to kill me? That’s cute, let’s ride motherfucker.” I’m not really a bad ass I am just curious and my curiosity has taken me strange and wonderful places and I like those strange and wonderful places way too much to help some bitch ass disease make sure I’ll never see them again. So yea, I’m not doing assisted suicide. I’m not ever doing it. My mind is made up. I am stubborn. And hell who knows? I might throw a Hail Mary. The world is endless people, the possibilities are endless, therefore I like to squeeze every opportunity I can before it is wrested from my cold dead hands.
Jim Butcher (via devilduck)
I assume you refer to my post on Black Bile/Melancholic temperament?
“The Vapours” was an archaic medical term which was basically the female analog to “melancholia" in men. It referred to a variety of acute and chronic mental illnesses, especially "hysteria”, but encompassing anxiety to chronic depression.
When it’s used in modern media in reference to early Victorian society, it generally refers to acute anxiety (or the sudden debilitation of a panic attack), which was one of the many uses of the term back when it was still in medical use.
It was believed to be caused by an excess of black bile (the “humour” created by the spleen). Today we know that these problems are caused by chemical imbalances in the brain, not humour imbalances. It’s also probably not a good idea to solve your problems by sticking leeches all over yourself…