Grim prognosis

I'm going to make this brief -- I don't have much time on this springy, metallic mortal coil we all share. I was diagnosed today with a shotgun wound to the head. I went through all the stages (except for denial, curiously enough) almost instantly, but my doc was gentle enough with the prognosis that it gave me the momentary strength to deal with it.

I said to him, "Doc, when did I contract this horrible malady?" He shook his head and said, "There's no way to know for sure... a lot of people come in contact with large-gauge firearms and never contract anything like this." To which I said, "Could it... have been that time I spent in Haiti?" The doc pulled his mouth tightly. "Maybe, son, maybe."

So, I am now one of millions of Americans suffering from severe gunshot wounds to the head. I don't want to be another statistic, but the survival rate is not good. The doc has started me out on a regimen of baby aspirin and robitussin -- which is unorthodox, I know -- because he assured me that this was a newer homeopathic remedy that might give me some more time.

I was considering tossing my star-power behind the pet cause of gunshot wounds to the head, but when I googled it, all I read about was how there is a charitable-donation "fatigue" because of all the celebrity pull the sucking-chest wound bandwagon is receiving right now, what with George Clooney's influence and all. So, I disabused myself of that route.

All that's left for me is to retreat to our lakeside cabin and begin recording my life and times -- which will pretty much be pure simulacra derived from all the Japanese-tentacle-cartoon-porn and William Faulkner I've consumed.