And another thing, since I'm on my high horse today. Something like this really shows you who your true friends are. Many have come out of the woodwork, including many of you and other 'strangers.' And then there are the 'friends' you've had your whole life, or for a very long time, who you know know about the BC, but who haven't even bothered to call or email.

For shame on you so-called friends; you know who you are. You showed me your true colors and I've taken notice. And there are, unfortunately, a lot of you who fall into this category. Former college friends, NYC friends, former coworkers and former mentors. Karma's a bitch people. I hope when YOU get cancer you are surrounded by people of better stock than yourselves.

I am pleased to report however, that every single one of my lifelong MOT friends have been outstanding. Just goes to show you that what I've said about my core crew is true—they are a great bunch and I'm lucky to have been raised amongst such love. Even if it was in Jacksonville.

Cancer Couture

I've just snipped a lock of my hair to send to the wig maker to the stars on the Upper East Side. Pathetically, this was the most emotional experience I've had yet since the BC diagnosis. Crying over my appearance—big shocker.

Think of these wigs as Cancer Couture, as the wig maker will custom cut and design the wig for you according to photos.

The problem? They run about $5,000. My friends and fellow cancer girls had told me that most insurance cos cover part or all of this cost. Mine? No, natch. "Hair prostheses" are an exclusion not covered by any Humana plan. The oncologist actually writes you a scrip for a "hair prosthesis." How FUCKED is that? Jesus H.

FUCK all you insurance companies, you're as bad or worse than Big Tobacco. Fuck this ass-backwards rich country that can't even guarantee insurance coverage for the really serious shit like CANCER. Another reason to be European. Or Cuban, according to Michael Moore. Nonetheless, I will still get the wig. But this fucking cancer thing is going to bleed my poor parents dry if this insurance thing continues. I need to get in touch with Michael Moore for my documentary, if anyone has connections to him.

I'm on hold with these rat bastard insurance fuckwads right now, they have a team of cancer specialists. Fat lot of good that does you.

Anyway, the upside is that I can choose both my hair and my new tits. I'm taking suggestions of tits to copy—celebs etc. I'm not well-versed in that aspect of celebrity, but I'm sure my male readers have some ideas.

I will not go above my current size, 34C, as I want them to look as real as possible. I don't want to morph into one of those LA or South Beach bimbos I make fun of for their grapefruit tits.

UGH! My book proposal is coming along and will be ready to ship to agent next week.

My life now resembles a Jackson Pollock canvas. I'm one of the central splotches; the one that on close examination may be a Native American symbol or something else unrecognizable to the average person. It's been a long time since my art history major. The other splats: BC, tits, friends, family, hospitals, hair, pink, tits tits tits and more tits, vanity, anxiety, humor, material, books, documentaries, music. Fucking A. All of the sudden this is very real. . .I've never been a fan of reality. But in actuality, my life is more surreality.

God damnit. I'm going to the gym to blow off steam. I'm fucking pissed. Now these horrific insurance cos are going to be a whole chapter in the book. I think I'll call it FUCK HUMANA.

This is why I will not vote for a president. It doesn't fucking matter who is in the white house when they are controlled by the lobbies. The figurehead in the Oval Office is just a symbol. The bureaucracy is too powerful; this country will ALWAYS be a mess. Period. Hillary, Obama, Giuliani—all the same. Democrats, Republicans they both feast on our blood.