Dead Poet

So, I’ve got bad news
and good.
The good?
They were wrong about the prognosis.
I’m gonna be all right
– at least for now.

Bad news: you can’t have my car
or my savings
and whatever you’ve been doing
with my dogs has gotta stop.
I didn’t want to think about it
when I was dying
but now that I’m not,
just… ew.

I know I offered you everything
at the time
but that was under differing circumstances.
Now that I’m gonna live,
I need my things to have a life.

How will I beg for my job back
if I can’t drive to work?
How can I buy pants that fit
my post-diet physique,
– after I gave up all hope of a healthy body –
if you don’t give me my money back?

I need my money back.
That carpe diem,
live every day like it’s your last,
leave a beautiful corpse ideology
is all well and good
but only if you can actually skip out
on the bill.
Seriously, give me my money back
and never talk to my dogs again.

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