Credit, Cancer & Chaos – if you can read it with no smile we’re similar

So yeah—turns out dying young has its perks.
I’m 18. I’ve had cancer for two years now. Did the chemo, lost a leg, rang the stupid fucking bell they give you when you’re “clear.” Thought I made it.
Plot twist: I didn’t.

Treatment’s not working anymore. Got weeks, maybe a couple of months. No dramatic music, no violins. Just a quiet, dull countdown clock ticking louder every day.

I don’t own a house. My car’s not mine. I’ve got maybe £2k in my account.
So I said fuck it.

I took out a credit card. £6.5k limit. 0% APR for 20 months.
Longer than I’ll be alive.
The bank approved it, bless their clueless little algorithms.

Now I’m living like a rockstar on borrowed time.
New clothes. Expensive steak. Whiskey that doesn’t come in a plastic bottle.
Sex toys. Silk sheets.
I even booked a hotel suite just to fuck someone I barely know against the window with the city lights behind her.
Because I can.
Because why the fuck not?

I’m not here for moral lectures. You wanna cry about your precious credit system?
Go ahead.
At least you get to live.
I’m just burning what I’ve got left—and doing it in style.

And when I’m gone? That debt dies with me.
The bank can go fuck itself.
They gave a terminally ill one-legged girl a credit card—maybe don’t base your economy on vibes.

I won’t leave behind a legacy. No house, no savings, no fucking grand message.
Just a trail of receipts, lipstick stains, and maybe one or two broken hearts.

Death is coming.
But at least I’m making her wait while I finish my wine.