Running With Scissors

The Six Stages of Grief

What would you do if you only had a month to live?

Many people have wondered the same question — often under the influence of a psychotropic substance while listening to Pink Floyd — but only few have experienced it first hand to answer it with the gravitas it deserves.

Nox the World-Breaker tried to answer this question when, after laying siege to planet Orgifon-ß, he informed its inhabitants that they had exactly 30 galactic days before the destruction of their planet, just to see what happened.

Apparently, the answer was: intense screaming.

Hollywood has also tried to answer this question to a varying degree of success. From selling all your stuff to live in an Italian chalet with Gérard Depardieu, to a full-on orgy in the middle of a family dinner, and even teaming up with a millionaire to do everything you haven't done in life. Fantastical, if unrealistic.

Reality is more mundane than that. People, more often than not, fall into despair and anguish, or maybe even find solace in family or loved ones to carry that weight during their last few moments in life. Some would, perhaps, do some crazy stuff like paragliding or ride a scary rollercoaster. But most are consumed with despair and anguish.

In fact, psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, after studying terminally ill people and how imminent death affected their psyche, determined that people tend to cope with imminent death though stages, none of which involved Gérard Depardieu.

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance: the five stages of grief, as they are popularly known. Self-explanatory, and so ingrained in popular culture that even a toddler would be able to recognize them. Most people find peace by going through every stage, understanding themselves a bit better after every iteration.

Peter was not like most people. In fact, he was so disenchanted by the whole process of grief that he blew right through the five stages and entered a new, previously unknown stage: the "fuck it" stage.

In the fuck it stage, one realizes that, since your time on Earth is drawing to an end, you won't live enough to reap the consequences of your actions.

There was a bullet with Peter's name somewhere in the near future. Or a knife. Peter hoped It wasn't a knife. But whatever the thing that was out there actually was, it had his name on it, and he was going to have as much fun as he could possibly have before that thing went through his body.

Peter woke up early to plan out his day, maybe even have a nutritious breakfast, which to him consisted of half a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon and a pint of Scotch. Unfortunately, he didn't account for his cancer-riddled bowels rejecting that much junk food, so he spent most of his morning kneeling in front of the white throne of the bathroom kingdom.

"Meow," said Mr. Trash, Peter's tabby cat. He rubbed against his leg, softly purring as his tail coiled around Peter's leg.

"Hush," said Peter, too tired to even think. "I'll give you your food later."

"Meow," repeated Mr. Trash, which in cat meant: "Worry not, human, for I am here to take care of you. I feel a disturbance inside you and know that our time together is drawing to an end. Know that you were loved, child of man, and will be remembered by generations to come."

"Go play with your pole," said Peter. "Just leave me alone."

Around noon, Peter felt he could stomach a meal. After leaving the fridge open for Mr. Trash to choose what to eat—because, and we cannot stress this enough, fuck it—Peter went out to fulfill a dream every New Yorker had but was too afraid to chase after: punch celebrity chef Bobby Flay in the face.