For those of you who wonder,
And I bet there are a few –
Am I still among the living?
Am I content, or blue?
When last we saw each other
I was set to hit the road,
With my best bud, dear Wilson,
Soon to bear a heavy load.
We planned to roam together
Until his time ran out.
I'd given up my life for him,
But I owed him that, no doubt.
I never questioned doing it
When the cosmic chance arose.
Though my "death" saddened others,
His needs outweighed their woes.
He was there when it mattered,
When I, alone, in pain,
Was tempted to just end it –
There was nothing left to gain.
He wouldn't let me do it.
Wouldn't let me choose my fate.
Said I wasn't finished living,
That it wasn't yet too late.
I doubted him, of course.
What did he know of my life?
A constant struggle to function;
Agony cut like a knife.
But he pushed and he prodded,
Wouldn't let me be alone.
Brought me food and news from work,
Made me laugh, instead of moan.
Videogames and pizza,
Medical puzzles and porn.
He found ways to distract me,
Though it left his wife forlorn.
He sacrificed a lot for me.
Bonnie was only the start.
His straying eye didn't help,
But time spent with me played a part.
When at last I was ready
To return to work and play,
He remained my faithful friend
And would buy me lunch each day.
What did he get in return?
Good question – hard to define.
It couldn't have been much fun
To hear me argue and whine.
And that's not even to mention
The troubles I brought to him.
Through Vogler, Tritter and Amber,
I caused much angst for poor Jim.
But then there were times he'd smile,
That mischievous grin spreading wide.
Something I'd said had amused him,
And his joy was too deep to hide.
Or times when we pranked each other,
And he gave as good as he got.
He once sawed my cane in half,
And I put his hand in a pot.
He did make mistakes sometimes.
Only human, so to speak.
No visit at jail or Mayfield,
Though I'd hate being seen so weak.
On second thought, guess he knew that.
He wasn't as dumb as he looked.
Was I the genius or him?
Sure seemed like him – when he cooked.
Those macadamia pancakes
Were a slice of heaven on earth.
I gorged on them with abandon,
Yet it didn't affect my girth.
Through numerous wives and lovers,
He kept coming back to me.
I'd offer my couch and liquor
And never charge him a fee.
When you think about us, dear fans,
Remember this wonderful fact –
We're not really real, you see.
I say this with all due tact.
That's the great thing about fiction.
We're not really real, at all.
Though Hugh and Bob made us seem so,
And look so – when I'd take a fall.
Our creator left us in ruin,
One doomed to die, one to grieve.
But that's just his take, not yours,
And in yours, we may never leave.
We may ride our bikes forever,
Or find a cure for disease.
We may find love and forgiveness,
And live a long life of ease.
Whatever you wish for us, people –
It's yours to create, fancy free.
We welcome your fanfics with gusto,
'Cause through them we always will be.