Blah

It's been a rough week physically and mentally. Natch, the fucking tattooing had longer-lasting consequences than the doc told me. Why haven't I learned this???

The boobage area was sore. You know we mastectomy-maestros typically have no feeling on the surface. But I do still get sore in the titties. It's almost like a PMS-type of pain, under the surface. The tattoos aggravated my scapula pain as well, which leads to the mental part. Each procedure, no matter how minor, triggers a visceral response. Pain in boob = memories of past surgeries = depression over 'why can't I be normal which leads to: I'msosickofthis.Ihatemylife.Sowhatiftheyaretattooed;myblogreadersandfriendsandfamily aretheonlyoneswhoseethemanyway.

I needed Percocet for the pain; even acupuncture didn't help. Which left me no option but an extremely expensive massage at the Ritz sunday. (I can't go to those Massage Envy type places because I have to be careful not to undo Chad's delicate work.) I haven't had to pay for a massage in years. It sure as fuck wasn't worth $170 with tip, considering my scapula is flaming as I write this.

This self-destructive, vicious circle of both mental and physical pain—not so good for progress. I'd set a goal of having a partial manu ready for my trip to NYC next week. Instead I've got 400 pages printed, unedited and have gone through two printer cartridges. I'm losing steam with the memoir. Seriously, I've got the most poweful agents in the world as my Facebook friends. Natch this is no accident. Some of them read my blog. Presidents of TV networks read. Hollywood people read. People, in short, with much influence in the media. Yet—aside from the impressive colleagues who've contacted me—not a one agent or editor. Yes, I'm lazy. But it's not unheard of. I don't want to do a proposal, okay. I'll give you 100 to 150 pages. Like it? Great.

But you guys especially know that I get what I need in life by eschewing most rules. Why should my career be any different. I'm not tooting my own horn, since I clearly stated at the beginning of this whiny post that I really hate myself right now—but wouldn't it be nice if all the good karma I've put out there this year would actually come back to me?

Whatever. Life's a bitch. Or moreover, life's a bastard.

Maybe a lot of this has to do with the fact that my birthday is next Thursday and I loathe my birthdays. My real age is approaching the scary spinster level, which makes me want to curl up and pour Xannies down my throat.

I've already taken 800 mgs of Tylenol today for the headache that won't go away.

Anyway. You ladies know how I've talked about getting my hair straightened at Momotaro for the past six or seven years. I've never been unhappy with their work. Until July. It wasn't *perfect* like it should've been. Brother's girlfriend had hers done Friday, which prompted me to call and tell them how unhappy I was etc etc. So I'm going back on the 18th. The woman, Alexis—one of the only ones who speaks English with a decipherable accent—wasn't so great on the phone. I had to put the stupid $200 deposit down, and she wouldn't tell me how much they'd charge to correct.

My reliable guy moved elsewhere, so I'm going to comparison shop. If Masato will cut me a better deal, fuck Momotaro. I've sent them thousands of dollars of business over the years. Sorry to unload, but I know some of you take people in my misery, so happy Tuesday.