Every time I developed a new health issue, I playfully asked Hamburgers, “Now whose medical history would you rather have?” I have never stated that I’d rather have his: HIV since he was three years old and all its inconveniences, psychological heaviness, and (sometimes near-fatal) complications. Part of my bias stemmed from people generally fearing the unknown. But despite that fear, Hamburgers agreed with me: he’d rather have my cancers and all they entail. The only time he admitted that he’d keep his HIV was nearly nine years ago, when I discovered I had severe bone loss.

We no longer compare illnesses because the years and issues have piled so high that it’s not feasible or useful. He and I have—so far—demonstrated we can take anything without reaching our thresholds. I suspect the medical history of the last one standing will be the one we each prefer.

With my calorie-restricting diet (this one, not this one), and the subsequent propaganda I’ve fed to Hamburgers, we can live to 150 years old. By then I’ll be using a walking stick and he a wheelchair, mostly because his current grumpiness will worsen and combine with an absence of vanity. When we go out, he’ll make me push him. Instead, I’ll poke his chair along with my stick as he mumbles derogatory slurs toward the monkeys trained to take our lunch orders. My metabolism will be so slow that I’ll only need five green beans for subsistence, but Hamburgers will abolish calorie-restricting in favor of binging. Things will get ugly when the monkey teases Hamburgers about being overweight and he snags my walking stick, enraged. “You haven’t a clue how hard it is to live with HIV for 147 years, you Simus!” (Simian-American will be the proper term, until Sim becomes politically correct in 2149.)

The one health condition neither of us wants is chronic priapism. Can you imagine our canasta game mates’ reactions every time we jump up to celebrate a winning hand? I’ll take HIV over that any day.