Dear Journal,
That sounds dumb. If this is happening, then I'm going full teenage girl.
Dear Diary,
My name is Jax and I'm going to die.
A little morbid? Possibly.
Much like Shakespeare, I've ruined the ending of a great story at the beginning. Mostly to avoid the inevitable triteness of another cancer teen romance. We all know those stories (looking at you John Green) where the dying kid meets their person then everything is ruined by Death.
Here's a heads up: this is just another one of those stories.
You're reading the journal of a dead kid, huh? You must have sunken pretty low on the boredom scale to get here.
Before Jeremy life was simple. I started with a glass of healthy goop, otherwise known as a smoothie. Mum was one of those people who willingly eats kale. And I went to the most prestigious school in the county, Brayden Preparatory Academy. Attendance requires a khjillion entrance exams. My dad's the headmaster so I have a golden ticket in thanks to genetics. It's basically a monarchy.
I wasn't – I'm not a brainiac. No four-point-oh or straight As for me but, I can read, write, and know that mitochondria are the powerhouse of the cell so you can say I'm set for life. However, my passions lay in the arts and according to my father, "The arts are a waste of time and valuable funding."
That was my life until my body said, "Screw it, let's get sick." I woke up in hospital after that. A million wires and tubes were attached to various extremities. One single moment of malfunction lead to The Discovery. That's when we found out about Jeremy.
You heard me right folks, I have a brain tumor. Congratulations if you guessed right, you've won the twelve dollars and pack of gum I had in my pocket when I died.
More specifically, it's a glioblastoma. More, more specifically it's a butterfly glioblastoma. Butterfly means that cancerous cells are leaking into both hemispheres of my brain like an insidious oil spill. The only option is to remove it which will kill me or delete my personality.
Let's face it, the world would be a dismal place without me.
Of course, there is chemotherapy but according to my oncologist, Dr. Callaghan, "Chemo gonna do jack squat for you, boy."
Dizziness, headaches, loss of cognitive function, and potential blindness will fill my final days. A morbid weather forecast. A seventy-percent chance of depression with a cold from of misery and one-hundred-percent chance of death at the end of the day.
I'm taking this well, don't you think?