Morphine makes me weightless, airborne.
GodDAMMit, stop giving it to me! STOP! It makes me lose control…
I can, must, fight this. Like the heart attack, I’ll come back. Back again, healthy.
Stop doping me. I need to control this. Have.
Control… Get better. For Judy. She’ll die without me. She needs…
Sonofabitch, I… I was going to live forever. For EVER. Those asshole doctors said possible remission. Probable! Others beat lung cancer. I’m as strong as… I’m stronger.
Listen you, I’m in control here, God.
God I want a cigarette.
Let me go, stop putting that shit into my veins.
Wait… Who’s calling? Who is…? What does she want? What do you MEAN, “You can’t see her?” She’s right there. What’d you say? Don’t patronize me you little shit.
Please, just let me go. My own way.
Stop drugging me.
“Roxanne’s choice of opening sentence for this week’s class promises to generate some more creative and off-the-wall writing. She chose Kelle Groom’s book I Wore the Ocean in the Shape of a Girl.”