It's weird. For years, I was kinda using my depression, anxiety, and hypochondria to kinda pole-vault into a paradoxical fearlessness of death.

If anything, at my worst, I'd be kind of passively suicidal and convince myself I didn't care. At least not in terms of my own survival -- the only reason I avoided death was because I didn't want to hurt Peg or my parents. (FWIW, I haven't been like that for years, except fleetingly.)

But with the very real possibility of a health threat, right outside my door -- not the same random doom I'd worry about every day, but something that could really happen -- that's all been stripped away.

And I'm just left with this weird, alien feeling that I'm REALLY NOT DONE living yet, I am actually quite attached to my situation, and no, in fact, I would NOT be OK with just having to discorporate on a moment's notice like the guy from Stranger In A Strange Land.

Like, for my own sake. For me. For the sheer force of my own will, ego, and sacred existence. It's neither good or bad, it's just weird and vulnerable and painful and exhilarating.

If I *don't* make it somehow -- which does still at least seem statistically unlikely, though for a big wheezy fatass like me, who knows -- at least know that I cherished you, this, and myself at the end. Hopefully not a bit too late.

Also FUCK would I like to see Parallax go five full chapters, even *if* the comic industry is about to collapse again, and even if nobody but like a dozen of my friends and Peg's fans give a shit about it. I WANT it. That feels weird, too.