Water. Let's get rid of it and revert to our natural state:

Next is the "blood sweats" phase, involving "a progressive mummification of the initially living body." The tongue swells to such proportions that it squeezes past the jaws. The eyelids crack and the eyeballs begin to weep tears of blood. The throat is so swollen that breathing becomes difficult, creating an incongruous yet terrifying sense of drowning.

Oh, but it's different, because now we have nebulizers and Chapstick and diazepam. Yay, medicine.

I'm tired of this; tired, tired, tired. Tired in bones and soul, tired of being aware that such tiredness is a small thing compared to whatever it is that Schiavo may or may not be experiencing, about which she may or may not be aware.

I'm tired of the pretzel logic. In fact, let's be honest: I'm growing to despise most of my fellow human beings, more than I do usually, even.

I'm tired of this go-round: "Would you let a dog die this way?" "Oh, no." "Would you let a relative die this way?" "Oh, yes. In fact, I have." "Was your relative a plump, reasonably healthy 41 year-old at the time?" "Oh, no, grandma was in her 90s and suffered from hypertension, CHF, and diabetes. And she'd just had a massive stroke." "I'm sorry to hear that." "Thanks." "Well, listen--would you want to die this way?" "Oh, no." "Would you want a criminal to die this way?" "Oh, no." "Then--" "Oh, but it's different in this case, because the courts have found repeatedly that Terri would have wanted to die this way, or at least she would not have wanted to live as she has been, so same difference really, and anyway federalism is super important, and we have to trust the rule of law on this and quit interfering in a private family matter--"

STOP. Just stop. How do you listen to yourself and not hear duckspeak? Quack, quack, quack. Not to wallow in melodrama, but it's to the point I'm ready to die now. Put me out of my misery. I assure you it's what I want, and that's more assurance than you, I, or anyone is getting from Terri.