Yes, I know I’ve used part of that title before. Let’s take this all the way back to Billy Dunbar. And settle in folks, this is not going to be pretty.

“I that in heill was and glaidness
Am trublit now with great seikness
And feeblit with infirmitie
Timor mortis conturbat me

Our presence heir is all vain glory
This fals world is but transitory
The flesh is brukle, the Feynd is slee-
Timor mortis conturbat me

The state of man does change and vary
Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary
Now dansand mirry, now like to die:-
Timor mortis conturbat me

No state in Erd heir standis sicker
As with the wynd waves the wicker
So wavis this world’s vanitie:-
Timor mortis conturbat me.”

William Dunbar wrote that poem (there’s much more) about dead authors, mostly poets.  Well then, let us talk of death.

Robin Williams- who informs my comic sensibilities a great deal. Leonard Nimoy- I taught myself to raise my goddamned left eyebrow because of him. He taught us that it was cool to be smart. Terry Pratchett- there’s no justice. And now we don’t even have Death. Harris Wittles- unassuming, wildly successful, secretly addicted to heroin, Harris Wittles.

I never knew those men except through their art, but I admired them. And if I can paraphrase another poet, the bell tolled for all of us when they left.

That wasn’t enough though. John Kevin Boggs- an acquaintance, a storyteller, and someone who I thought I’d get to know better later. Look him up on youtube; you won’t regret it. Michelle Reuter-Zsarko- a friend from school. We were in most of the shows in HS together. She was my Theatre Club president when I was VP. 9/11 Survivor. 38. Cancer. She asked us for a favor that I meant to get to. Later.

I want to make the point that all of these people except Robin Williams have died in the first 90 days of this year. And even he’s less than a year gone.

How about this week?
Hey, Voodoo’s in palliative care. She’s going to die. Soon. Yes, I know she’s a cat. She still loves me. She still doesn’t know what’s happening. And I’m still helpless to stop it.

My Grandmother’s in hospice. Got the news the same day that Allyson took Voodoo to the vet. Just a meaningless coincidence, I’m sure. This is not a surprise. She has Alzheimer’s; she’s been going downhill for years. She barely remembered who I was the last time I saw her. And she’d forgotten me completely two years ago. But now my Dad and my Uncles are literally deciding whether to stop treating a UTI so she won’t have to live as a prisoner in her own body anymore.

I have to remind myself that I have a job, and that I’m getting married.

Fuck this year. Fuck cancer. Fuck death. Fuck Alzheimer’s. And fuck whoever it was that decided to let pets and children waste away.