If It's Monday, I Must Be in Hell

God fucking damnit. There's a reason we all hate Mondays, right?

I spent this entire weekend—seriously all-day Saturday and Sunday—organiz-izing my work and Cancer materials. One in the same basically since my memoir is mostly centered around the past year. My friends make fun because instead of relying on electronic organizers, I still take notes in my Filofax, old-school style. I think many writers still prefer to take notes.

I have the Filofax Pocket model for day-to-day organization.


One week covers two pages:


Jotted down on these pages are to-do lists as well as what I did that day—from doctor's appointments to workout recaps to social events to things that happened or quotes I want to remember. Basically, my entire life resides in note form on these sacred pages. Has for years. In terms of a daily online journal, the blog has replaced any type of electronically stored diary.

Once a new year comes around, and whenever the book becomes too thick, I remove the pages and stash them somewhere safe so I can go back, look at the pages and write from these notes. One line or event will jog my memory and then I can input the stuff into my Word docs.

In short, these pages are absofuckinglutely fundamental to my memoir; they serve as an intensely detailed outline of the year. Well fuck me hardcore right now because I can't find the pages anywhere. I organiz-ized all my Cancer closets and baskets. Sorted through all the medical paperwork, hospital souvenirs—wristbands and gowns and compression garments, oh my. Made neat my two dresser drawers full of my clips; climbed on the kitchen counter to reach all the messy cabinets; tore up my jewelry drawer thinking the pages were hiding under the containers. Even removed all my books from my bookshelves only to re-shelve them neatly. I even ransacked my clothes closet. The pages are nowhere. Nowhere. I even called mom to have her excavate my bedroom at their house. Nada. The only two places left are under my bed and in some of the kitchen cabinets. I'm putting that off because if they are not there. . .well, I am sans-Xanax so the conclusion to another fruitless search would not be pretty. (As I'm editing this I'm calling Dr. Melnick to have him call me in a Xanax scrip. Have I mentioned that Xanax are both fun and useful?)

I even tried to will my subconscious into revealing the answer to me in my dreams, but that didn't work either. I suspect they are in a very obvious place, but I fear I threw them away. Anyway, any suggestions on where I may have stashed these fucking pages would be appreciated.

On another stressing-me-out-and-pissing-me-off note, I called Plastic Surgeon's office today and once again found out that he'd glossed over the details of tattooing in the color of the nips. He'd told me I'd be in and out, a simple in-office procedure done by an aestetician. So I called Nora to schedule the appointment. Nora is a lifesaver when it comes to the recovery details the doc sort of mentions in passing.

Like the fucking fact that the tattooing is done in two stages over a (now) three-month period of time. So, let's see—a simple 'in and out' procedure has now turned into yet another extended period of life interrupted. Monday, Feb. 23 I go in for my first tattooing. The color fades, Nora says, so I must go in again after for a second tattooing in of color a month or so later. In between those sessions, I go in for the "snipping" session for the right dickle. You thought I was exaggerating about my dick nip? Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't a circumcision also referred to as 'snipping'? Well, fuck. So in March he snips the dickle. And then in April I go back for the second tattooing. Three more months of boob drama I so do not need.

For just one day I would like to wake up to some good news. Just one day, that's all I'm asking. And people wonder why I wake up so late. Well, if I woke up early like normal people then that's just more hours in the day in which bad things can happen, okay?

Grrrrrrrrrrrr. Now I'm off to ransack the few remaining places in which my diary pages can dwell. After that, depending on the outcome, you either can reach me in bed doped up on pills and drooling, or celebrating in the streets. I have a sick feeling though that it will be the former.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck fuck.