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?

what's my secret? I have cancer.

This is the first time I've gotten "dressed" in almost a month, with wig and false eyelashes to boot. Everything looks rather boring, though, same old, same old. All of my vintage dresses are in storage. What can I possibly do to spice things up?



Faux fur gorilla coat, natch!! Sacramento may be boring, but its thrift stores are most certainly not.

So here it is, proof that radiation and 11+ chemos don't have to get you down. At least, not all of the time.

camera obscura

Today I found the stack of photobooth pictures that used to adorn my fridge. I stared at them for a good 10 minutes, unable to recognize the constant in all of them. That hair, those good times. Whose are they? Certainly not mine. I feel like I'm staring at a dead girl. The people in these photos have gone on to do all sorts of things- some have moved away, some are having babies, some are in love now. Some are out of love. Some I see more, most I see less. I am the same. I died in September, and now I'm just waiting to be born again.
I don't recognize myself when I look in the mirror, either. Here, I am totally alien. Bald like a baby, except for blond downy hair that seems to be sprouting up everywhere. I wonder if I will be blond now. eep. I don't want to be a whole new person just yet.

For posterity's sake, here was my radiation burn last week:


It's so strange having a burn eat up your skin seemingly out of nowhere. Lamest super power ever.

Another effect of radiation? Laziness. My dreams are becoming too easily decipherable. Last night I dreamt I had a boxing match with death. He was eight feet tall and shrouded and absolutely terrifying. He then turned into a man that suspiciously resembled Ryan Seacrest. I couldn't touch him, lest I die, so I boxed with red knitted mittens on my hands. Thanks subconcious. I already knew that I like boxing and knitting and that I am still a little scared of death and definitely very scared of Ryan Seacrest.