Dick Nips

If I weren't going to B & L's election party tonight, and consequently concerned with keeping my eye-puffiness to a minimum, I would be curled up in bed crying. Because: I am fucking sick of this shit, people. I am sick of my boobs. I'm sick of writing about them, talking about them, photographing them, obsessing over them, taking pills to mask their pain, making wardrobe sacrifices to accommodate them, blah blah fucking blah. Seriously. I'm over it. Remember when I proclaimed that I just couldn't fathom women who didn't elect for reconstruction? Well, now I can. Now I envy those women.

You know when you're on a long drive on a nondescript highway and you're in that final hour; those last 60 miles? That home stretch is always the longest part, right? Never mind those 350 miles that you've already logged. That last hour is interminable. Well, I'm in those last 60 miles and they seem interminable alright.

Men, especially those related to me and/or those who actually still see me as a normal, sexual being, you may want to stop reading here. . . .

But I know this is like a car wreck and you're still reading because you must read anything about nipples. . . .You were warned.

I wait nearly two hours on the doctor. Would you believe they were OUT of Botox? Listen, I may not be able to control the water weight, the hair growth, the fucking residual chemo puffiness causing my eyes to resemble Renee Zelweger's, not to mention the girls—but damn straight I'm going to control what I can. Anyway, I was hoping for a mock brow lift to negate the puffy eyes, but no Botox.

When he finally sees me, as he's un-mummifying my torso:

"Now, don't freak out when you see them, they're going to get shorter."

"Huh? Oh, I'm not looking at them. I never look until the stuff is a little healed."

"Well, you have to look at them. You have to change the dressings every day, and you're going to have to look at them. So I'm telling you now that they're longer and they'll shrink."

"Oh, God." I start moaning. I cannot stand to touch, see or even envision my scars. After the mast, I would scream when I caught an accidental glimpse in the mirror.

So he unwraps me. I look down. And scream a little.

"Omigod. Omigod. Eww." Short breaths. What the fuck did I just see on my chest? "They look like penises." Literally. The nipples look like little, newborn penises. They are foul. Period. Just plain foul. Like little penis-shaped, tee-pees of flesh-colored clay.

"That's what about 40 percent of my patients say. I always look forward to hearing what the reaction is."

"They look like penises." I repeat, quite obviously in shock, looking down at yet another foreign object that is now a part of my makeup.

I'm still in shock over the penis nipples as the doctor moves on, showing me how to dress my penis nipples every day for three more weeks. This, remember, is in addition to the fact that I must wear a bra stuffed with camping foam.

For someone who wants to vomit each time she sees her penis nipples, the wound dressings could not be more ill-suited to her disposition. First comes some kind of nonstick tape, out of which I must cut a triangle for the penis nipples to poke through. Then about five sheets of gauze—or nursing pads for ease—with another penis-nipple hole. Then about five more sheets of gauze—no penis-nipple hole. Then paper tape. Then hideous granny bra. Then camping foam. I'm going to take a photo of the whole getup tonight so that I can remember the proper way to dress these fuckers every fucking day for the next three fucking weeks. FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKK me.

"But my friend in Boston had plastic nipple covers," I say meekly, knowing that there is no escaping this dreaded daily dressing.

"Well, I don't know what they would use, but blah blah," he says. I'm not really listening anymore. I'm mentally going through Wardrobe, thinking about how I've never recycled this many clothes, ever. Ah, the good old days. When I could go nearly a year without outfit repetition. When all I needed to think about was which jeans, which shoes, which bag. Now my jeans have dust—and probably nipple juice and moths, for that matter—on them. Okay, I won't get started on Wardrobe; that will really prompt the waterworks.

Now I really am a cyborg. A man-made, she-cyborg with penises on her fake boobs. I mean, come on, can this whole thing get any weirder? No, right? It's science fiction.

"I can shower today?" I ask, still hopeful.

"Probably not until tomorrow." Lovely. Another party to go to relatively unwashed. Thank god I have an actual bath with a handheld shower head.

He did tell me one good thing though: He took some belly fat along with the skin. So the chemo baby is definitely smaller.

But I still have penises on my tits. Penises. On my tits. Any of my friends who want to see, feel free; I know some of my friends have a morbid curiosity about what's going on under the bandages.

And now Joe The Fucking Plumber is on CNN. We are truly living in a world gone completely mad. Penis Nipples. Joe the Plumber. Nursing pads and bras from Target. Is it 4:20 yet? And now Wally just shit-ploded all over my bathroom again.

Obama as president better be the light at the end of this day or I don't know what.

Suck It, Cryptkeeper!

Please god, let the Cryptkeeper's coffin be nailed shut tonight. Or I am moving, swear it. To the Four Seasons, Costa Rica. Mark my words.

Guess what I woke up to again? Bloody shit—

Wait—the Naked Cowboy is a Republican and just endorsed McCain to Richard Roth on CNN? I'm sure the Cryptkeeper loves that.

Anyway, I think Wally may actually be sick and not just stomach-irritated. Fuck me. Isn't one sickie per apartment enough?

The bandages come off today! Woot woot. Now it's time for the granny Target bra with camping foam. And accdg to Mel, camping foam is actually a legit technique that she had to employ after a recent shoulder surgery!

Anyway, happy voting and the next time you hear from me, I'll be wearing a bra for the first time since February. A dubious distinction, as my first post-op bra is Target instead of Cosabella or Hanro. (La Perla—a total waste of money unless people aside from doctors and family members are seeing your girls.)

Debates, bitches! I'm not going to tell you to vote; I'm confident you guys have that under control. And here's hoping tonight is a historic night.