Black cat, white cat.

I haven't been too motivated lately to update or anything, and I regret that this blog isn't really anonymous, so I can't really post what I want.

Last night, I was walking and I suddenly realized that I had a disease. I asked my girlfriend what it was. She lamented that I had AIDS. I was devastated. We roamed the streets, crying and questioning, fighting, and stopping to get guys to take some photos and give us advise with the camera. Then, I realized that likely after I die, I was going to go to hell, because they don't let promiscuous people into heaven. Then I justified that there is, in fact, no life after death, so it didn't really matter anyway. Then I got really excited, because it was the end of this life, but I was going to be starting a new one, and that was good.
Eventually, the time came when it was the night before I was going to die. I went to bed, knowing that I was going to be visited by a ghost that night. I woke up to see the liquidesque figure opening my door, coming towards my bed. He was not the grim reaper or satan, but someone who had also died from AIDS, and he was there to talk to me, or at least answer my questions. I didn't know what to say, really...I started to cry and I reached for my camera. This guy was part Matthew Good, part someone I don't know. Anyway, he sat on the edge of my bed, and listened to me, and spoke in a frank, understanding way. It was amazing to have someone there that knows what it feels like to die...like, the actual moment of death, and he told me not to be ashamed for dying from AIDS.
The next day, the day of my death, I was walking with my girlfriend, and we realized that she likely had AIDS as well. It was logical that if I had it, she had it. Not knowing what else to do, we sat at a cafe table. Suddenly, I was like..wait, are you sure I have AIDS? I thought I didn't...I thought we were certain of that. No, no, I don't have AIDS...what a relief, I won't die today. ...I started to sob amidst my girlfriend telling me not to worry about it, because it wasn't really happening anymore. It didn't matter, because I'd still lived the process of thinking I was going to die 2 times, and that's really the worst part.