I have cancer, I think.

This is all true.

When they diagnose me with cancer, any day now, I will spend my last days having fun figuring out exactly when I gave it to myself. Because that’s the way I think it works when you’re someone like me. A non-contributing, cynical, needling, complaining waste of Doritos and Oreos. It doesn’t stick to the bottom of your shoe on your way home from the bank, then slither into your open mouth as you take a nap on your parents’ couch. And you don’t get it when the homeless guy’s long, sharp pinky nail scrapes against the palm of your hand when you offer him change because you’re trying to bribe karma into that job promotion. No, when you’re terrible, you give it to yourself.  And for the short remainder of my life, I will tirelessly dissect every event in my life that could have contributed to that defining moment.

Predictably, my search will start at the beginning. I think we’re supposed to look back at every traumatic experience we had and think of what terrible part of our personality is the direct result of it. Do I not spend enough time with my niece because I farted at my grandfather’s wake? Am I only asking that guilty question because it was during the eulogy? I think I don’t volunteer my free time to help those that are less fortunate because I once let my dog lick my privates when I was taking a poop before hockey practice. My parents paid thousands of dollars for me to learn how to play the piano. I can’t play a single song. And thousands of dollars for me to play hockey. I can’t stop with my left foot. My dad never wrapped a towel around his waist in the locker room at the YMCA. I’m still making comparisons. Any traumatic experience I had just made me even more selfish than I already was. Cancer is the perfect cure for selfishness. It eventually kills it.

But maybe I was too young then to really begin the downward spiral of being told, “Everything happens for a reason,” and Facebook memorials that give “friends” the homework assignment of sharing a story about a cute memory. They say your teenage years are your transformative ones, so maybe my body started attacking itself then. There was a time when I ate back-to-back Chipotle burritos and had to sit in the car with the seat-reclined for an extra half hour to make sure I didn’t throw up the $19.50 I just spent. My friends in the backseat weren’t impressed. I think I was averaging 9 burritos a week at that time. Although it might be great for the toilet paper companies and their stockholders, it wreaked havoc on my digestive system. A group of my friends used to be really into collecting basketball cards. We would frequent the local card store. We’d trade, beg, and steal to get the best cards. Yes, steal. Instead of spending our time helping our 400+lb. best friend get in better health, we were busy using him as a camera shield at Venture as we were lining our pockets, underwear, and socks with as many packs of basketball cards we could waddle out with. Unfortunately, fat friends aren’t as good at shielding unwanted eyes as we had planned. Apparently they attract a lot of attention. Even though I was terrified as security stopped my friends but not me, I didn’t bother to tell my friend’s mom as I got back in the car. We waited 30 minutes before she figured something was up. The anxiety remains today. Maybe leukemia feeds off of it. In high school I copied almost every single homework assignment that didn’t have to be typed. I didn’t have to ask Nelson Torres what he got on his AP Bio exam. Because I know we both got 4’s. And now biology is the exact thing that is probably killing me. Or is it chemistry. I wouldn’t know, because I refused to take that AP test at the end of the year. There’s nothing to be proud about when you pass out from too many Miller Lites under a truck in DeKalb, Illinois in the middle of the winter. I woke up in the middle of the night in my friend’s car, completely soaked, and freezing. For weeks we both told everyone that I peed on myself and locked him out of the truck. But really we both passed out outside in a puddle, sharing the under-the-truck as if it were a twin-sized bed. That’s how people die. White blood cells don't kill stupidity. I kissed my first girl when I was 18.

When you only apply to one college, never visit, live with people you already know, and never put a single thought into what you should study, you’re asking life to end early. Or you’re looking forward to it never beginning. All those college parties, and all the ass-kickings I narrowly avoided never taught me any positive lessons. Maybe a black eye and a bloody nose would have toughened up my immune system. I was too busy only caring about myself. Not in the healthy way. I told my buddies on the lacrosse team a bunch of racist jokes, because I wanted them to like me. Does being completely pathetic seep into your bone marrow and ruin the red blood cell making process? I forced my mother into coming with me to the doctor so we could find out if my private parts were the right size. They weren’t. They’re not. If you’re one of those people, like me, that thinks there is a ‘right’ size. But why did I drag her with me? If I had kept my problems to myself maybe I would have learned to accept life for what it is and maybe not have wasted so much of it. I could never build up the courage to do the things I felt passionate about. I fell in love with a girl. I never told her. And I never accepted that I never told her until years later when time replaced love with various other things that are too insignificant to remember. Love could have been the answer. I lost my virginity when I was 20, or was it 21? It’s one of those things that I’ve lied about so often that I can’t remember. Like my ACT score.

If there is a moment when you’re supposed to realize you’re an adult and accept responsibility for your life, I never had it. After college I caddied for a summer, then moved to New York City where I pretty much lied to everyone about what my intentions were and what I was up to. I wanted them to be impressed, when really I should have just done my own thing and turned into the person I wanted to become. I guess I didn’t want it that badly. But that didn't stop me from telling everyone I did. There were booze-soaked nights of scraped faces and misplaced desires. But not as poetic. Even though that wasn’t very poetic. Instead of being a mindful, contributing citizen, I became a despicable version of myself. “Version of myself” just really means, I was myself. Chasing a dollar while running from it. I don’t know if my soon-to-be cancer is correlated with greed. But I know greed is a cancer. Going $25,000 into credit card debt is something I’ve done in this most amazing city. I missed out on all the incredible experiences all that money could have bought because it’s hanging in my closet and folded in my drawers. Tell my mom to dress my un-embalmed body in every overpriced article of clothing I own. Hopefully a pretty girl will be impressed. Because that was the whole point anyways. “I moved to New York to be a comedian, well, to do something creative.” I’ve done standup less than 10 times in this city. And I rarely work towards any creative goals. So maybe I deserve to wither away and be forgotten. Cancer is composed of immature cells. No wonder.

In the end, and this is the beginning of the end, what I’ve amounted to is a guy that satisfies himself by watching old friends’ wedding videos, sighing, judging, and being arrogant. All in the third person. Or is it the second person? I’m the guy that is too lazy to look on the Internet to figure out if it’s the second or third person. I don’t give anyone a chance. They’re assholes before “Hello.” I’m the one that doesn’t deserve the chance. By the way, Facebook shouldn’t be the place for self-improvement, yet my whole life revolves around it. And I’m a liar.

I’ve had a terrific life. My family is hilarious, caring, thought-provoking, and a bunch of pains in the ass. If there is anything in life I’ve taken for granted, it’s them. And all the rest of it. I make fun of my cousins for having children that stress them out. I smirk at their divorces. Can I get the wedding gifts I never gave back? I tell everyone my brother is my best friend. I guess it’s acceptable to talk to your best friend once every other month. By text message. My mom is super intelligent, loud, and absolutely wondeful. I avoid her. My dad is the funniest person I’ve ever met, he’s insane, he worries, and he pisses me off. I blame those few moments when he was unimaginably mad at me. I never let them go. I’ve wasted a terrific life.

And now I sit here and think about how the most shameful moments in life are the ones we waste. It kills us. I’m not wishing for a better tomorrow because I’m trying to be fully in the present. But really, like everything else in my life up until now, I’ll wait to start that tomorrow. If I have one.