— So what's wrong with you? <...> You're hardly the picture of health, are you? What's wrong?
— You don't want to know.
— I'm fascinated. Tell me.
— What's wrong with you?
— I have an unquenchable bloodlust for darkness and depravity.
— That's nice.
— Is it cancer?
— No, no. Has anyone ever introduced you to the concept of small talk?
— Well, what is it if it's not cancer?
— They don't know.
— No way.
— That is brilliant.
— You're a bit odd, aren't you?
— Unquestionably, but death is by far the best bit.
— Of what?
— Of life!
— Did you read that in a birthday card?
— You're funny. All right, let's examine the facts. It's terminal, your sides hurt, and you cough badly. All signs point to malignant tumor damage. You're not in denial about it, are you? You're not, you know, desperately searching for another explanation?
<...>
— It's definitely not cancer.
— Okay. I don't want to waste my time diagnosing you if it's going to be some run of the mill cancer thing, you know?
— Who says I need diagnosing?
— You're dying. Painfully, apparently. And they don't know why or what of. It just sounds pretty undiagnosed to me.
— We're all dying, you realize. Slowly, painfully. Just a matter of time, friend.
— See now, that's the spirit! Are you scared?
— I try not to think about it.
— How's that working out for you?
— Not very well.
— Are you being survived?
— I have no idea what that means.
— Wife, kids?
— Right, okay, you can't say that. It's survived by. It has no other grammatical context.
— Jesus, what are you, a dying English teacher?
— Yeah.
— Oh. That's fair enough, I suppose. Conjugate me to your heart's content.