Hi, yes, hello, this is about your medical insurance card, hope you’re having a great day. So, if you’ll give me a minute; I wanted to just put it out there that existing is a biological hazard and health is a logistics nightmare. See, you think you’re good to go, you know, leave your bed this morning and face the terrifyingly fast deteriorating state of co-habitation we call the world, natural defenses all ready and shit, and boy are you wrong. Please, if you’ll grant me the gift of fucks-given and open ears, I promise: this will be 119.99$ a month worth the aftermath of economical dread and consequent budgeting panic (albeit very minor) attacks.
Look, you remember (ah, the memory is still fresh as dry cleaned bed sheets) when it was you and them against mama nature and you thought yourself a worthy adversary because you, silly goose, have gone above and beyond to romanticize atrophy and could always take the easy way out if shit, God forbid, ever really hits the fan. Because you’re young and invincible and most importantly indifferent and your body is an under construction temple that you’ll tend to in the next 5-year plan the same way you tended to your college graduation project 3 days before it was due. You know, procrastination worked 9 satisfactory times out of 10 and it has made you arrogant. Now listen, this will be 119.99$ a month worth the bondage, the slave labor, or whatdya call it, the job. I promise.
Well, see, though you might have thought it highly improbable, sometimes you want to live nice, love nice, fuck nice, but your body doesn’t know nice. What your body knows all so intimately is junk, backache, and tar. It knows reckless endurance and soldiering through the every day and that sleeping for 18 hours is super fun because in your dreams, you can fly. The real pickle is wanting to live when all you’ve prepped for was to die poetically. And darling, if you’ll excuse the endearment, for just 119.99$ a month, worth giving up regular funding of your dream Euro trip saving account, you get to smoke for 10 more years and feel less guilty about it. I promise.
Let us also establish that you’re all alone against a tyrannical natural selection, and that if you’re bed-ridden by 34, none of the boys on Tinder will ever swipe right. And if you’re wise enough, and I know you are, you’ll never have any desire to pass on your faulty genetics and terrible coping mechanisms to the guy who will most probably die first come the nuclear post-apocalypse. I mean, the planet is running out of resources and it’ll be a dog eat dog world out there. But barring future dead offspring, and if you’ll allow me to be so bold, the one responsibility you’ll ultimately owe a loved one, is to spare them the burden of caretaking.
For just 119.99$ a month, worth the moment of painful realization that, yes, you’re old enough to be that practical, yes, you’ve self destructed enough to be afraid, yes, you want to live enough to pay for it, you get yourself someone with a certificate to (hopefully) clean up your mess and tell you exactly how to not kill yourself slowly today.
And honey, if you’ll permit me the little intervention, it’s okay to breathe fully, and to love someone hard enough to fuck up responsibly. It’s okay, it’s not shameful, it’s not unfashionable, it’s okay to grow up enough to give a fuck. I promise.