Turns out my boyfriend wants me to slowly die a painful death while he saves humanity.
(Sound the horns, I am off the market. Online dating and nights of questioning all men has ended.)
But back to the point of this blog entry: My boyfriend wants me to die.
The other day we were discussing the world and all the horrid people in it and how the heck we would continue to survive in such a sad state of affairs. He then said, “Survival of the fittest” and I almost slapped him square on his adorable cheek.
“Survival of the fittest?!” I screeched back, “Survival of the fittest?! Not only is that a meathead mentality in 2017 but also….that means I will fucking die. Thanks a fucking lot.”
In this scenario, where the strong people make it and the weak perish, I would survive for a solid but short amount of time thanks to my disposition and swole biceps. But then….I’M A GONER. I need medication to live and food to live. Not food to live in the “eat bread every couple of days” food to live but food to live in a “if I don’t get a simple carbohydrate followed by a complex carbohydrate right now I will die and it will be sweaty and sad” food to live.
Let’s say we are in the zombie apocalypse–I, again, will not last that long. He wants to kick ass in the zombie apocalypse. Which means he, again, wants me to die. He assures me that he will make me insulin; he popped a Goog on how to do that and seems to have it all figured out.
If I am ever in a situation where I don’t have insulin and a syringe and glucose—I will die. That freaks me out sometimes. If I’m lost in the forest, I can’t survive on ants like a Type None. Hold up in a third world prison, I can’t survive on licking the floor for scraps.
There are many obstacles to having type one. Not surviving an apocalypse is just one of them. Luckily, my boyfriend will find a pig and get me some insulin. We’ll see if he delivers.