Blabbering of a Bibliophile - WINNER'S ENTRY!

The Literal Heart of Jesus is possibly the most uninspiring source of inspiration for my metaphorical pursuits. I won't lie because the time that I have left shall not be put to improvident businesses such as lying. It is true, I contemplate the metaphorical implications of playing Counterinsurgency Two both before and after I have played it. Be that as it may, The Literal Heart of Jesus, in no way, helps my pioneering groundwork here.

Lately there has been just one person who inspires me to get out of one pool of vomit that is my bedding arrangement to get into my wheelchair which helps me drive myself to some other place, not my bed, where another pool of vomit can be made. That's Hazel Grace. She's the Obama to my USA, the awesome to my Indianapolis and sometimes, even the very breath that keeps my soul going. 

Of course as you may imagine I feel particularly up today. Yes, only in spirit. But that sure is something. Anyway, so, there is a quasi-medical term called the Surge. Doctors say that often a day of what is known as the Surge precedes the Blindingly Inevitable also known as death outside of Augustoworld. Isaac will not appreciate the choice of words I am making in this soliloquy at this particular point. But he doesn't have to know. Right then, basically, I think today I might be going through the Surge.

I know full well that such a day may or may never come again, also that whether it does or not, I will die and soon. Therefore, it is only logical that I hold on to what I presently have. I have my pretentious but mouthwatering aura and an undying (unlike myself) urge to be present at my own funeral. Now, since the Literal Heart of Jesus does not move me, neither do the odds that I will attend my own funeral in spirit. I believe in Something, just not in the possibility of me turning into Casper.

The Literal Heart of Jesus may be a farcical representation of what a cancer kid could be doing while alive, discussing what it feels like to die and then feel like the proverbial dog who was made to smell a bone and then the bone was made to magically vanish. But I just figured that it can also be an excellent place to hold my Prefuneral Ceremony. After all, there is a certain and undeniable significance to places where one meets the love of their life for the first time, right? This, in my opinion, is poetic symmetry, a comprehensive end to my story that fascinates me.

"Hello, Hazel Grace," I say to her over the phone.

"Augustus," Does she make my name more pants-unbuttoning-ly charming or what?

"Could you find your way to the Literal Heart of Jesus at eight tonight?" I ask her, the Surge talking for me.

"I could," There's a smile in there somewhere that telephonic conversation does not allow one to view.

Of course I can imagine it and so the Surge surges forward.

"Would it at all be possible for you to write me a eulogy by then too?" I ask her the bit that's crucial.

"I love you." I tell her before I begin contemplating the metaphorical implications of listening to my eulogy tonight. I admit that this is my first time doing that.

"And I, you,"

***

Dad drives me to Support Group at 7:45 and Isaac's mom drives him. We are duly escorted via the elevator to the, yeah, The Literal Heart of Jesus. My crappy heart is beating faster than usual despite the fact that I haven't literally even stood up from the wheelchair since I defecated this afternoon. See? There's a certain charm that fancy language can bring to pooping too. Then again, nothing can undo the creepiness you currently experience. Does it matter, though? Oblivion is inevitable, or so Hazel says. I want to believe her. And this is a leap of faith. No one will remember my defecation timetable.

I acquire my place in the middle of the circular arrangement of chairs; Isaac walks over with his mother to the wooden lectern from where he shall be speaking. I try to indulge him in small talk, and he unkindly points out how my small talk gives him headaches. Then Hazel Grace arrives, wearing one of my old T-Shirts and baby blue pajamas.

"Hazel Grace, you look ravishing!" I tell her. I don't lie. I don't have to. She's beautiful.

"I know, right," She says as she pulls up a chair next to my chair which has wheels. She kisses me and I kiss her back. It is brief because the objective of this meeting, grudgingly so, is of a Non-Making-Out nature.

Isaac, on realizing that all the mourners are gathered here, starts thus.

"Augustus Waters was a self-aggrandizing bas***d. But we forgive him because his God Complex wasn't reason enough for him to live only eighteen years when he should have lived more."

"Seventeen," I correct him.

"You intervening SOB, I'm assuming you got more time."

Of course, I am self-aggrandizing. And of course I know I am a beautiful piece of work. But as self-consumed as I am, the idea of Isaac declining robot eyes is absurd. There has to be a catch.

"Having made my rhetorical point, I'll just accept the robot eyes because they could help me see through girls' shirts. That'd be totally cool." This Isaac says through tears whose source is horror-show-like to imagine. But I get the catch and secretly agree.

But I advise, "That part about seeing through girls' shirts, maybe let that go, yeah, Isaac?"

"Will you just shut up, you bas***d, correcting your own eulogy?"

Isaac is reaching his breaking point and I am too. I give him the thumbs up. I am glad prefunerals were conceived by my unearthly grey matter, I am.

Hazel Grace stands up to escort my emotionally shaken blind best friend to a chair. Then she takes his place at the lectern and unfolds a heavily folded sheet of paper. She looks shaken too. I wonder if Eulogy Demands are entirely healthy from her perspective. In relative terms, she's healthier than I am. Still, should I have compromised that for a friendly cancer perk? Again, I am not in the business of lying. I really need to know how she eulogizes me.

"Augustus Waters was my one and only love. Since I cannot talk about our star-crossed love story without breaking down most horrifically here, I am going to discuss some Math with y'all." She blinks out of her eyes the first set of tears for the night. I am still getting there.

"A writer we once liked taught us how some infinities are bigger than other infinities. So there is an infinite collection of numbers between 0 and 1, another set of infinite numbers between 0 and .1 and you get the drift, right? I have had my little infinity, our infinity." She's not reading from her the paper anymore and I am there, I am crying.

"Augustus Waters did not get nearly as many days as he deserved. I do resent the size of my unbounded set too but, Gus, my love, I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for our little infinity. You gave me a forever when I waited everyday for some sort of never after, oblivion. While I still think it is inevitable, I also think that so was our love. Some things just make sense, I guess. They fit. I wouldn't trade us for the world, not even for a literal infinity."

With this I am now going to take a moment to realize that this beautiful lady before me is my girlfriend. Her eyes are swollen, she's hiccuping but she's also smiling. I don't have the impressive musculature of the former Gus who could get up, go to her, and kiss her until out of breath. But that's what I want to do, that's all I wanna do. What I really do is cry. Simpler pleasures of existence naturally come to include crying when you are weeks or days or even hours away from dying.

 It could, obviously, be the Surge talking. But I am looking about The Literal Heart of Jesus and I am surrounded by two of Jesus' classiest creatures, however eyeless or lung-less. I am loved deeply, if not widely. I am beginning to see what she means or it could just be the Surge. Either way, now more than ever, I am obligated to mention this.