If you've ever wanted to be a Slitherin' Sarcoma, let me just tell you that it sucks total ass. Better to be a Walking Wart or a Hunting Hangnail, for sure. Slithering around sucks. Being a fucking cancer sucks. I just suck. Literally.
I snake around looking for someone, ANYONE, to connect with. I have to. I can't never NOT never make contact. But whatever I come into contact with, I fucking destroy, so I have to start all over. Rinse and repeat. I am relentless. Don't blame me; blame my OCD.
When they see me slitherin', they start runnin'. Well, the smart ones do. The smart ones build their fortresses of clean living and kiwi fruit to keep me at bay and it usually works. Usually, but not always.
There are always a few dumb or naïve ones, though, and them's easy pickins for a badass, cancer-filled Slitherin' Sarcoma like myself. These sweet, dumb folks think that they can help me change with their meditations and their medicines. These are the ones who don't put up even a picket fence to keep me out. Almost like they WANT me to come and suck the life out of them. May as well wear “Sarcoma Wanted: Apply Inside” signs around their beautiful, suckable, attachable necks.
I wish that I could stop chasing people for their tasty cells. Stop making them run. Stop making them suddenly notice that a huge fucking sarcoma just slithered up their nose and set up shop in their brain.
But I won't stop. Because I can't. The thing about a cancer, you see, is that it HAS to exterminate everything it gets close to. As a Slithering Sarcoma, I have the power to destroy anything. Anything, that is, except my own damn self.
Copyright 2013 Sarah Shaw