That Awkward Question

From time to time, the question...

Some have asked, 'Hey, what's the deal?

It does seem like a mystery.

Is your dying quite for real,

or are you seeking sympathy,

with GoFundMe in your name,

seeking help from all you reach

to capitalize on your fame

and retire on a tropic beach?'

That's really kinda hard to hear,

but yeah, it's been a long, lone time,

and it's not so very clear,

but I'm not asking for a dime.

It's something I can do without,

but I understand your doubt.

There's no GoFundMe, and I've outlived my doctor. Maybe the alcohol I use to reduce the pain enough to eat has acted as a preservative; beyond that, I have no idea why I've lasted this long.

Am I a hypochondriac, making Himalayas out of pebbles? Perhaps, but Barb has seen me ignore broken bones, third-degree burns (clumsy with the welding torch), and an impalement, and would disagree strongly.

I have no answers, and the pain of days and nights are something to dread. But I'm glad I ain't dead yet.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is NOTHING. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and that's a good start.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained,

and thus one day it came to pass

an overreach, and so I sprained

my tightly chic and stylish a**,

and everybody laughed at me,

formed judgmental sentences.

'You shouldn't leap from a tall tree

and not expect some consequences!'

But there the tree, and there was I,

having heard that lovely song,

and I believed that I could fly,

but baby, was I ever wrong,

and the worst and final cut

was friends who signed my bandaged butt.

Just under four minutes. I had no idea where I was going with this.

Still don't.

Music from Jimmy Buffett, with Margaritaville 

Sylvia wonders if there's tequila-and-lime flavoured ice cream.