Washington, D.C.: I am a very young, terminally ill person. I am in my late 20s and will not live to 30. I will die largely painlessly and will have all of my physical and mental abilities intact until the very end. My spouse and family are spending as much time as possible with me. I think that's as much as anyone can ask for a death. I have accepted this and simply want to live the rest of life with as much joy as I can. I'm happier now than I can remember being at any other time in my life, and my relationships with people who are close to me have improved as a result of my new attitude. The problem is other people. My more casual acquaintances, friends of friends, fellow workers, and neighbors often ask me how I am doing. If they ask once, I say that I am feeling well and enjoying my normal activities. However, if they press further and ask about the future of my treatment or my prognosis, I tell them the truth—that I am dying. People often look vastly uncomfortable when I tell them this and will refuse to meet my eyes. Or, alternatively, they will refuse to accept this as truth and argue that anything can change, and medical advances, blah, blah, blah. Further encounters are awkward and short. Am I rude to tell people this? I feel that since I am the dying one, I should be able to live my (short) life honestly and openly.

Dear Corpse Pride:

Well, we'll all be dead sooner or later too. Don't feel so special. Nice to know you're going to use what little time you have left to bash everyone on the head with your misfortune.

What are they supposed to do when confronted by a stranger/acquaintance that discloses something that universally unpleasant? Take your pulse? Have a mirror ready? Dial 9-1 and keep it at the ready? What is the fucking point of brining it up? If they "press further" it's only because you've laid your condition on them at some point so they know to ask. I'd call that entrapment. If you pulled that on doodahman even once, every subsequent encounter would go something like this:

doodahman: Oh my, are you still alive? Good for you.

You: Fuck you, doodahman.

doodahman: drop dead. Oh, did I say that out loud?

How about this. Instead of leading them down a path that you know will result in a perfectly reasonable discomfort, just say you're doing fine and leave it at that. In fact, the only difference between you and them, or any of us, is that you know within a finer degree when you'll turf it. That's actually kind of an advantage.