Chronic CA Syndrome

The Pseudo-Scientific Journal of Radical Medicine.

I bring to your notice the not so well known malady so far named "Chronic CA Syndrome".

A truly terrifying disease, the symptoms fascinatingly manifest in two seemingly separate ways.

Case 1:
The patient suffers from acute depression, hopelessness and sense of inferiority. Some patients have been observed constantly muttering the phrase "kahan phans gaya hou mein", usually preceded and followed by swearing.
When questioned, patients cited loss of high-school friends to prestigious universities, "shitty" studying environments in "third-grade glorified tuition centers", "crap" teachers who "mess up concepts", and constant failure as the top reasons for chronic moroseness.
Patients display overly "downer" behavior and become "boring" conversationalists as their tendency to complain sharply rises.
Treatment is to "get over yourself", "accept and be grateful for your life" and to severely avoid "competition with your friends, coworkers and everyone really".

Case 2:
The patient becomes what experts can only describe as "an insufferable asshole".
The patient's ego suffers severe and in some cases irreversible expansion. This results in increased spewage of "verbal bile and bullshit". The patient's mind becomes addled and the patient firmly believes that only they know every detail about all careers, qualifications, the economy.
Further deterioration causes the patient to launch into un-asked for lectures on how "everyone is messing up their careers and lives" and should only follow what they are deliriously saying.
Unfortunately at this stage, the patient emits toxic fumes (category: gianticus assholicus) which causes people, animals and even some species of plants around the patient to flee and abhor the patient.
Unfortunately there is no cure. Such patients must be quarantined immediately. Preferably until they learn to "stfu". Or forever, nobody would really care.

My Answer to Everything

In the far-flung future, in a galaxy not too far away
I will be sitting in the space-garden of my space-house
enjoying a space-coffee
from Starbucks, obviously
when the reporter-droid who is chrono-logging my thrilling life-story
will ask me about my relationship with my one and only

I will gaze at my beloved and
huff the deepest of huffs
bust out my space-ukelele
and play a ballad which would mean something like this

I fell in love on her first word.

We met at a support group for neurotic writers
while a revolution we couldn't care less about brewed outside

i came in wielding fan-fictions from multiple universes
content to sit cross-legged, beaming at my own geekiness

she came in with a lightsabre

she sliced away my preconceived notions of
poetry only being for emo hipsters in poorly-lit rooms belting out cliched moroseness
she showed me raw, un-apologetic honesty
she force-choked my heart that day

the next time i saw her, i had my blue suede shoes on
dancing a merry jig, all hooked on a feeling
and through our infinitely interwined fingers
she called me her Star Lord,
she was already my Pryde

And i'll strum about all the saturday nights
we spent galavanting across all of time and space
no adventure too big, no life too small 
she is my brilliant TARDIS and i am her Doctor
especially when the clock strikes ten and noon

i would follow it up with a power-chord
of all the times fictional characters had us going
"Noooo" and "Whaaaat" in equal measure
and how she is the Holmes to my Watson
even though she is the real doctor
the Frodo to my Sam
and how the One Ring is a metaphor for like life or something
and how sparkly pretty elves are

and when my epic space-ballad of the ages is coming to an end after at least a 40 minute solo
i'll breathe deep
and look at the one who was with me through it all
and will be with me for countless more
i'll say that all of that means just one thing:
she is my 42.