Twunts

WARNING: This blog post contains coarse language. It is not intended for readers who are whiny and overly-sensitive. It is not available in Descriptive Video for the Visually Impaired, but I guess I could come to your house and describe me giving you the finger or making the Jerk-Off motion while I read it to you.

Alrighty then. Let's move on.


When I think about my friend Greg, I think about twunts. Don't know what a twunt is? Then watch this until about the 1:15 mark:

Twunt

This makes me think of Greg for two reasons. One: Because he is one of about three people I know who know what I'm talking about when I call someone a twunt. Two: Because I'm actually kinda surprised he didn't come up with that word before TV did.

Some of you who read this will know that Greg is pretty sick. Cancer is trying to kick Greg in the balls. Greg is trying to kick it in the balls back. It's a big ball-kick fight that's been going on for a long time. But unlike most ball-kick fights, this one's not even a little bit fun to watch.

Most of us have watched from a distance. We've kept up with what's going on with Greg by reading the things he writes for us on Facebook. Maybe once in a while we think we can comprehend a little bit of what it's like (I've been guilty of that) but today I learned that I definitely don't have a fucking clue. Today, the things Greg wrote described so explicitly what his life is like right now that for the first time while reading something he's written, I burst into tears. I cried because my friend is going through hell, and I cried because I was dumb enough to ever (even for a nano-second) think that I could understand it in any way.

(I will be sporadically dosing this blog post with scenes from Rescue Me. It's easier for me to write if every once in a while I see something funny. Plus, Greg likes this show and might enjoy watching some of the best clips. Plus, I like to show off how funny it is, even though I had literally zero things to do with it being made)

Who wants a dog?

I could write a bunch of things here about how great Greg is and all the fun shit our group of friends has done, but I don't feel like it. We all know the fun shit we've done. Greg already knows I think he's great. I've told him many times. I've also told him many times that he's an arsehole, but he knows that I hardly ever meant it, except for the times when I did. I'm sure he's called me an arsehole, too. And I'm sure I deserved it.

That, to me, says more about the quality of a friendship than all the hugs and kind words in the world. If you can tell someone they're being a fucking idiot and know that doing so won't be the end of your friendship, then you've surrounded yourself with the right people. Greg and I once had a fight over how Heath Ledger died and we didn't really talk to each other for about a month, but I knew that whole time that we were still friends. We each just had to take a few weeks to think about what a jackass the other was. Then it was all better. I've watched Greg and Jeff argue with each other while literally BOTH BEING ON THE SAME SIDE OF THE ARGUMENT, yet I knew the whole time that five minutes later they'd be joking around like total morons again. I usually don't like watching people argue, but it's so fucking funny to watch Greg when he gets wound up that I gladly make an exception when he's involved. I will watch wholeheartedly (probably with a feebed-out expression on my face because concentrating on the argument uses all my brain power and I turn into one of those mouth-breathers you see on the bus.)

What colour are YOUR balls?

So, yeah. I got nuthin'. I read what Greg wrote today, and it fucking sucked. I wanted to write something under his post to make him feel better, but those words don't exist in my vocabulary. They never, ever will. My mindset has always been "If you can't say or do anything that will help, then don't say or do anything." I still believe that. I will always believe that. But it makes me so angry. Sometimes I want to be one of those people who can write about prayers or good vibes or whatever. Not because I believe in prayers or good vibes or whatever -- but because I envy the peace they get out of saying those things. I envy how it must feel to believe that no matter what happens, everything will work out how it's supposed to.

Is that cocaine?

So I don't say anything. I think Greg knows that's not because I don't give a shit. I give many shits. I give all of the shits, in fact. I don't say anything, because Greg already knows what I'd say: This fucking sucks, and I fucking love you, you arsehole.

Cockfarts


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