It’s a frustrating feeling to have a story that’s so ridiculous that you know it’ll sound made up when you tell it. That’s the current conundrum I find myself in. This story sounds faker than Nicki Minaj’s ass, but fuck it. I’m gonna tell you guys a cute little tale about the time one of my best friends faked terminal cancer. Yes, some sociopathic steaming bag of dicktits faked cancer. It was pretty surreal.
Faking cancer is obviously an extremely evil thing to do. But in an ass backwards way, it’s oddly brilliant in that everyone will definitely believe you. Think about it — if someone tells you they have cancer, you don’t say “prove it!” You’d never even suspect someone would ever be shitty enough to fake having such a devastating illness. Now at first I heard rumors about the whole thing being a hoax. And it’s weird when you hear rumors of one of your friends faking cancer, because you think some fucked up thoughts, like “… my friend better have cancer or I’ll be pissed.”
She got REALLY, REALLY DEEP into character. She shaved her head, and she even photoshopped medical documents. She was like a psychotic method actor. The Daniel Day-Lewis of fake cancer. She even won an Oscar for her performance. It was a fake Oscar — fake like her cancer — but still.
Let’s start from the beginning.
This insane chick, we’ll call her Anna, gathered the whole crew together one night. It was a fun night until she was dropped some heartbreaking news on us: that she had terminal cancer and she had only had about 4 months left to live; 5 tops. Obviously, we were absolutely devastated. The whole squad cried like we just watched the ending of Toy Story 3 on a loop while cutting onions and listening to a Death Cab For Cutie playlist. It was an intense night.
I had no idea what to say; no idea how to comfort her (or myself). I told her that if she ever needs anything to please let me know. I don’t know what I could have actually done; after all, I can’t fucking cure cancer. But what else was I supposed to say? “Wow, you’re fucked, Anna. Oh well, at least you’ll lose weight.”
Those few months were an emotional rollercoaster. Like a Six Flags in hell, the whole friend group was along for the confusing ride. Things started to get suspicious not too long after the initial announcement. First off, she had no hair on her head, BUT she still had eyebrows, arm hair and pubes (it was a weird friendship). Obviously that was super fishy.
Also, for someone who was apparently dying, she had a lot of energy while partying. Every night she’d still come out with us and get absolutely hammered, do drugs, and hump anything with testicles. I shrugged it off, in denial of the fact that someone who had terminal cancer wouldn’t be able to get themselves off the couch most days, much less live every night like Rick James in the ’80s.
It was slowly getting more and more apparent that she was using her illness to guilt trip us. She had a big Halloween party and in the Facebook invite she said, “You guys NEED to come, because my doctor said this will be my last Halloween.” That’s odd, because what doctor measures time like that? I don’t think anyone goes to the doctor like, “Give it to me straight, doc… how many Halloweens do I have left?”
Five and a half months fly by, and I’m kind of befuddled — this bitch should have been 6 feet under by now. But confronting her would feel too awkward, obviously. How the hell are you supposed to look your buddy in the eye and say, “Hey… Why the fuck are you alive?!”
But the evidence kept piling up. Still had hair? Check. Using her illness to emotionally manipulate our asses? Checkaroo. Having way too much energy for drinking/smoking/banging? Check. Then we finally found proof that she photoshopped her medical documents. After finding that smoking gun, we hit the jackpot — her dad contacted us and told us that she was faking it. Her OWN FATHER, arguably now the biggest snitch in the game.
At this point we’re all angrier than Bill Cosby with an empty medicine cabinet. I called her up, because, much like a slow kid in a calculus class, I needed answers. So I pick up my phone, click on “Anna,” and hear ringing. She picks it up, I interrogate her like a badass cop. and I eventually get a confession. This. Bitch. Admitted. It.
But after that, she did the most awkward thing possible: she asked if I wanted to hang… No, Anna, I don’t want to hang. The friendship doesn’t continue after you fake cancer; we aren’t still pals. That’d be like if you caught your girl cheating on you, and you still took her on that date you had planned afterwards. That’d be like if after JFK got shot, they continued the parade..
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