“You’re going to die.”

Those were the best words I had ever heard. My name is Jackson Pollock. My parents had hoped naming me after a famous artist I might be instilled with his grace and creativity. I was not.

I am 55 years old, I have two children, Allison and Angela. I haven’t seen either in over 10 years. I have been unhappily married for 30 years. My wife, Harriet, condescending cunt. She thinks I call her CC to be cute. It keeps me from chopping her into tiny pieces and feeding her to goats.

But now, that’s all going to change. You see, today I was told I was going to die. I have an inoperable brain tumor. It can’t be cured with radiation treatments, but even if it could be…I don’t have the money to pay for it. While the joy I would derive from putting CC so deeply indebt she wouldn’t be able to eat more than canned peas for the rest of her life excites me, I’d rather not die a hairless skeleton. I told the doc thank you, and left with a slumped and depressed demeanor.

Surprised?