iNFEKTiD.org

So the other day I was doing research on a problem with a group of Macs freezing up. I found this website where, after ~20 seconds of reading a conversation, this fake chat box pops up.

“Oh hey! How may I help you? I’ve got a girl avatar and a pretty sounding name so I look legit!”

Bot suspected. Bot confirmed.

Since the death of my father, my brother Joe and I have broken our pseudo-silence and have become closer again. This is after a few years of him going through his “I’m pissed at absolutely everyone in the world because I don’t know how else to cope” mode. The tragedy is it took the reality-shaking death of our father a few months ago to get him to snap out of his internal struggles in order to realize there is, in fact, finality to everything.

Since our father’s death we’ve been emailing each other 3 -10 times a month. It’s been therapeutic to say the least. My brother. Whom I helped take care of since I was old enough to understand how to hold a spoon and feed him. Joe. The only person who I can say anything to and have the ability to read precisely what he’s saying to me just by looking at his face. His raw body language.

I am a body reader.

You know when a certain holiday rolls around and you’re reminded about a favorite food or dish you can’t wait to have again? The yearning. The anticipation. Continuing a close relationship with my brother, at this point, is kind of like that. Familiar. Good. Heartwarming. Filling.

Since my brother and I have been talking, my girlfriend and I recently talked about me streaming video games for him so he and I could interact in a more personal way. Something that we used to share when we lived together. I’d play video games and commentate. He’d watch and laugh.

So far he’s liking it. The therapy continues.

In some ways I feel like one of those people who do nice things for other people, not because they’re benevolent, but because they want that tiny rush they get from getting someone’s appraisal. Slightly selfish with a side of selflessness. I also feel like my brother doesn’t have a lot of time left. He’s getting old as he’s approaching 40. That’s like “65” in Cerebral Palsy years. His health is also deteriorating as he spends most of his life sedentary, lying on the floor. He rarely gets out. I know he’s also in a lot of pain. He’s usually hopped up on pain killers when he’s not sleeping.

It makes me sad sometimes. But then I think that only bitches would be sad for my brother. Only a bitch would look at his life and feel sorry for him. I love my brother. I don’t want to lose him – but I will. I know it.

So I play video games, turn on my camera facing toward me, hit “Begin Stream”, and hope I put a smile on his face.

The ability to tell jokes should never come under arrest. One should be able to joke about anything they wish, regardless of who might get offended. They way I see it is this:

A comedian is kind of like a musician. The audience is like a stringed musical instrument. Some sounds come out louder and more clear when the strings have some tension.

To abandon the tension in all of the strings, for fear that someone will get offended, the result would be a poor-sounding song. The comedy would be lost. The art would die.

This is why comedy has to constantly push boundaries – to keep tension in those strings. To keep the art alive. To discover new sounds. And most importantly, to make sure those sounds exist for future generations.

Sometimes I stop and think to myself “What if I had shouted at my father when he was dying on his hospital bed? What if I said ‘Hey! Dad! This is your last chance to wake up and get better! WAKE UP!'”. I know that, at the time of his death, and even the night before his death, I knew the absolute truth: My dad’s body is fucked up beyond recovery. Cancer. Multiple infections. He’s done for. The only task that remains is mercy. So he shall have it and become one with death.

Not even all of the stupid fucking “spiritual” or “energy” stones, my sister brought to his hospital room, could save him. Oh, how I wanted to throw those stupid stones out of his window every time I saw them. I wanted to shake sense into her and her mother. Oh, how I wanted to scream. Of all the wasteful things we do when a loved one is dying. I bet hard that medical advancements would prevail and that my father needed rest, not visitors. The social repercussions is that my brother Pete and I have been branded as “those whom didn’t care”. They don’t understand. It doesn’t matter.

Sometimes I feel guilt, in that I should’ve spent more time with my father in the hospital, but then I keep returning to my remembrance of how messed up he was; how incomprehensible and sporadically responsive or cognitive he was. Such a sad state to see someone who used to represent strength and wit, to become so frail and bewildered.

I don’t feel guilty anymore – just occasionally sad and haunted by what I’ve seen.