To Pee or Not To Pee

Bitch, don’t cry. I still have the ocean in me though I can no longer swim in, nor against it, nor protect you from its undertow or its delicious froth, and lulling rhythms.

Please stop crying. I can't decide whether to live or die while you're crying so much. It doesn't hurt as much as you think it does or else it would have killed me by now. Your sadness watching me wane is harsher than the pain I'm in.

Death is slow in my case, and I'm reluctant. It's true I don't want to leave you. You have me "Sherpa High" as the Tragically Hip say, and I'm working towards dying without your having to make the terrible decision, but I'm not rushing it. I love being here and loved. Bitch, I'll make it perfectly clear when I don't want to be here. You'll know. I trust you. In the meantime, sure, read the Bard:

“ To be, or not to be, that is the Question:
Whether 'tis Nobler in the minde to suffer
The Slings and Arrowes of outragious Fortune,
Or to take Armes against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to dye, to sleepe
No more; and by a sleepe, to say we end
The Heart-ake, and the thousand Naturall shockes
That Flesh is heyre too? 'Tis a consummation
Deuoutly to be wish'd. To dye to sleepe,
To sleepe, perchance to Dreame; I, there's the rub,
For in that sleepe of death, what dreames may come,
When we haue shuffel'd off this mortall coile,
Must giue vs pawse. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would beare the Whips and Scornes of time,
The Oppressors wrong, the poore mans Contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd Loue, the Lawes delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurnes
That patient merit of the vnworthy takes,
When he himselfe might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardles beare
To grunt and sweat vnder a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The vndiscouered Countrey, from whose Borne
No Traueller returnes, Puzels the will,
And makes vs rather beare those illes we haue,
Then flye to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of vs all,
And thus the Natiue hew of Resolution
Is sicklied o're, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprizes of great pith and moment,
With this regard their Currants turne away,
And loose the name of Action.

Shakespeare, "Hamlet"

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