Forever Diabetic

Dear Josh:

After sending you the link about the games, you told me you will be retiring from GameStop and hopefully getting on disability, because now the horrible diabetes has started to give you hypoglycemic seizures that make you bite your tongue and die a little inside.

You have always been the diabetic in the group. In fact, if I were your campaign speechwriter and you were running for president and I had to make a list of the three most important, world-changing things you've done, number one would be: Has Diabetes.

It's what makes you special, and what helps me tell you apart from all the other meatbags who try to ride my coattails to utterly hip. Your diabetes, and the way we'd pour normal Mountain Dew into your wussy diet bottle just so we could watch you become horribly irrational and maybe pass out.

But don't worry. We've got your back on this one, compadre. While you're on disability, you'll have the perfect opportunity to stay at home and watch over the lab we're going to build. That's right. Me and all the guys, and whichever of the girls want to come along, are going to build a lab, and we're going to develop an immortality serum.

Crazy, no? I can tell by how silent you've become that you're stunned by our generosity and our brilliance. And to be honest, it was all my idea. But that's okay. This isn't about me.

This is about you.

Our hope is that we'll finish this before the sugar need shuts down your central nervous system, or at least before there's a new season of House MD on the air. Because we are totally committed to you. Until the fall season, at least.

One day you will wake up, and you will be immortal. And who knows, maybe you'll have laser eyes or some sweet cybernetic enhancements or mutant healing powers or something. You will be eternal. You will be forever diabetic.

You will watch all of us grow old, and play tricks on us like we used to do to you- moving our canes, or telling us you'll give us some immortality serum but then it turns out to be poison, or something like that. And we'll be like, Josh, that joker. What a riot. Except those of us that you gave poison to, because they'll be more like, gag, gag, a pox on you. And we'll all laugh.

One day the Earth will be incinerated, probably by you, on accident. And you will float in the cold depths of space, craving insulin. Planets will fear you as you descend upon their alien populations, craving their sweet, sweet pancreases.

They will send out their superheroes, but all their attempts will be futile, because if there's one thing extrasolar aliens aren't, it's American. And you'll be all, RAWR, and they'll build a statue of you with a plate and harvest virgin pancrei in mounds to lay upon it.

The way I see it, it'll all be pretty sweet, unless you get hit by a glucose comet or something. Just floating out there in space, wanting insulin, choking on your tongue.

BFF,
Me.