I might be leery of cancer but I refuse to be afraid of a word.
I intend to fight the blighter and, as a writer, make it lighter. My body will battle the cells that dwell inside of me. But I will take on the moniker, the handle, the nom de guerre of the greasy, little bastard and plastered wherever it be, I will be in front; with a million words at my disposal to bolster my proposal that, with all the shades it brings, its name will be a small thing.
It will not receive the respect of whispers and silence. It will be pointed at and called out. It will have to stand next to rugby and love and rebel songs and see if it cuts the mustard. There will be no red carpet for cancer the sleazy little chancer.
I do not wish for it to come. I do not think it can not come. But I am ready if it does come. Thumbs up and nib inked. If it thinks it can scare the likes of me, it has another think coming. And another. And another.
(All well now)