My best mate, Tom, is coming over. I haven't seen him for the longest time. Weeks, which is unusual for us. He's been sick. He's been very sick with cancer. Chemo, hospital, bone marrow transplant x2. Hospital. Hospital. Hospital. (sweetie) I think all up, he's spent the good part of four years in hospital. Five years ago was the main stint, but recently he had a relapse and now he is in recovery mode again. Six months in hospital, six months to recover.
He's lost 25 kilos, so, as you can guess, he looks a little different.
It broke up his second uni degree, but he hopes to go back to it next year.
It'll be good to see him. I love him dearly.
He's smart, he's caring, he's interested in people. He's someone who could make a difference in the world. He's one of the good ones, it is so unfair.
He nearly died, a few months ago. The closest he's ever got. The most interesting thing about that was people's reaction. Two very good friends said, He should just go, as he lay in ICU in a critical condition. He's been through too much, he'll never be the same, it is, finally, his time, they said.
I was shocked. I marched right down there to ICU, as soon as I was allowed and whispered in his ear. You can do it, you are the strongest person I know. I love you.
Tom's driving up to the city, for, practically, the first time since he's been out of hospital. We're off to visit old partying buddies, part of our old clubbing crowd, now good friends, with who we had more fun than I thought was ever possible.
So many parties, so many people, so many drugs. We had the most fantastic time, we were fun sluts, to be sure, as well as the other kind.
Big smile.
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