I have a friend who, because of assholes like those post office douches, always carried a card (she used a lot of public transport, and worried about being kicked off the bus on days when she couldn't walk without staggering or talk without slurring) that said "I'm not drunk, I have MS."
Fucking bastard of a disease. Fucking bastard of a disease that has its grubby, awful hands on too many people I know.
And people expecting you to be a shining example of coping and sweet spiritedness worthy of a Hallmark movie. How dare you not be exalted by your suffering.
I wrote the song "Fearless" (trust me, the title is completely ironic) for my friend Tracy, with late stage Lyme disease. I sang it for ita after she died.
"I'm not fearless. I'm just human. I've been broken in places that you'll never see I've got nothing to spare You've seen all that is there Just back off and let me breathe. I'm NOT FEARLESS."
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Fucking bastard of a disease. Fucking bastard of a disease that has its grubby, awful hands on too many people I know.
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Dear Liza, there is a hole in the bucket and it's leaking hopes and dreams.
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"I'm not fearless. I'm just human.
I've been broken in places that you'll never see
I've got nothing to spare
You've seen all that is there
Just back off and let me breathe.
I'm NOT FEARLESS."
Yes, it's a very bad morning.
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