gimpy wimpy

I can't sleep and I'm all fuzzy from opiates.

I've been obsessing over the prospect of surgery lately.

I'm not so worried about the gnarly scar... wouldn't that be fun? I could say I got shanked in prison or jumped into the polar bear cage at the zoo. And walking with a cane... I could make that cool. Maybe. I'll have to get one with an animal head for the handle. No, no, it occured to me that I probably wouldn't be able to walk in heels for quite some time. THAT is what bums me out. My fucking shoe collection.

Let me explain before you conclude that I'm the world's pettiest cancer patient. With sexuality comes power, a certain vital sense of control, that is utterly wiped out by cancer treatment. I can't hide behind my femininity like I used to. I can't brush my hair over my eyes. My curves are gone. I can't even fuck right now (chemo apparently restores virginity, fyi, something my doctors failed to tell me about). My only consolation, really, is "faking it" with wigs and dresses and heels, praying it all comes back to me once my body heals. Like riding a bicycle, right?

So don't take away my stilettos, cancer, because I really don't think I can handle the cruel cruel world of comfort footwear.

On a totally unrelated note, Grass Valley is surprisingly beautiful. Places like these make it all worthwhile, don't you think?