Some of the Things I Want To Say (Part 1, I'd imagine)

People don't want to tell me about other people they know who have died from cancer. Like it would upset me. 

"What, you mean people die from this stuff??? Aaaaaghhhh! I never knew!"

I guess it comes back to that inability to talk about death that seems to be so ingrained in our society. 

Death and taxes, guys. Get over it.

I want my children to be resilient. I don't know where I got it from, but I have it, and I want them to have it too. Identity, self-awareness, believing you have a right to be here. Not a lot to ask, but tragically missing from so many people's lives. 
The media gets blamed, Facebook, modern society, yadda yadda. 

Let's face it, it comes from the soup that our little croutons float around in until they are adults. And we make the soup. If we constantly immerse them in our own self-doubt, self-criticism, self-flagellation, they are hardly going to come out of it thinking they are the best they can be. 

Sometimes people just need to get over themselves.

Trying to be honest with people can be quite hard. 

Palm Stings

My hands still hurt. But now I want to inflict the pain myself.

I want to grasp the nettle. 

It was bound to come, the reckless abandon that comes with thinking your time on earth is to be shortened.

I remember hearing a joke once about a man who went to his doctor because he was getting headaches, pins and needles down his arms, and dizzy spells. The doctor told him he had one month to live (interesting diagnosis/prognosis without any investigations, but I guess we'll go with the poetic licence excuse). 
The man left the doctor's surgery, walked straight up to his boss and told him where to shove his job. 
He then took all his money out of the bank, sold his house and car, and took himself off around the world boozing and gambling and generally having the craic (and/or crack). 
He came home after 4 weeks and decided he would buy a really fancy suit to get buried in. He went to a top-end tailor and carefully chose the most expensive fabric. The tailor measured him carefully from top to toe. "Waist 32, chest 42, neck 16". 
Our man piped up, saying "Ah no, I'm a 15 neck." The tailor checked and double-checked, and said, "No sir, you're definitely a 16. If you've been wearing a 15" collar you've probably been getting desperate headaches, pins and needles down your arms, and feeling very dizzy...."

What always struck me about this little story was the liberation you could feel from knowing that your number was up. How you could do whatever you wanted, tell people how you really think, throw caution to the wind.

I think I should do that now. 

Those who know me are now rolling their eyes and running for cover.
It's not like I'm generally backwards in coming forwards. 
I try to avoid passive aggression if I can at all, much preferring to barrel into things full force, with as little tact and nicety as possible. 
So deciding that I'm going to be even more honest in my opinions doesn't bode well for anyone.

But I suppose what I really mean is that I am going to do the things I've always wanted to do, and say the things that should be said.

And buy myself a nice new car (on the never-never, obviously).