The MRI last night was hell. Imagine being stuck in a tube with aliens bombing it from the outside and robots screaming in your ear for an hour. At least, that's what I imagined with my eyes closed.
A friend recently called me "cancer girl" and suggested we hang out soon, "assuming you don't die of cancer". I know he was joking, but I was offended (please do not call me this). Cancer girl. Cancer girl... sounds like a superhero name, no?
I began thinking of my favorite comic book characters from childhood; mostly boys I thought were attractive (gambit, tuxedo mask, mmm) and then BAM! Nostalgia hit me like the proverbial H-bomb. I was obsessed with Tank Girl comics in my pre-pubescence and early teens. I would draw her incessantly, substituting the characters for my friends. In fact, my fashion illustration croquis today are totally reflective of this.
I saw in Tank Girl what I wanted to be as a grown-up: an untouchably tough nonsensical kick ass punk rocker ready to annihilate anything that stood in her way who still remained undeniably cute (remember camp koala?).
I wouldn't quite call myself this girl now. I went through my "I hate the world" phase back in high school and left it there. However, when it comes to this tumor, I feel some of this old idealism bubbling back up. The fighting spirit, if you will.
I completely see it when I look in the mirror: buzzed head, body scared, bruised, bloodied and bandaged from all of the blood draws, tank top stained from my inability to eat otter pops with the necessary au fait.
Enter Cancer Girl.