It's so cold in Miami that I've been wearing my full-length shearling. They're even predicting snow tonight, which I would love. Curling up with Wally on my couch, watching snow fall over the water from my window? Too good to be true, so I'm sure it won't happen.

My mentor Gary told me I needed to write about S-E-X in Cancer Is the New Black. I can barely deal with sexual relations in the first place—reliving them on the page isn't my idea of fun. But he's the expert, a straight guy and if he's curious about what sex is like with Breast Ca, then I can only assume other people are. (FYI, it's not that much different. You just can't feel anything on your nips. So breast-fed men beware. There's something SO beyond grossly animalistic about nipple suckage anyway that I'm always a little wary of men who are into that. I feel like they must have a really weird mommy complex. No offense, teet dwellers.)

So I wrote eight pages between yesterday and today about my latest sexcapade. I mean, I do talk about sex with my friends freely, but writing about it is somehow more personal. If this piece 'o Cancer crap ever is published, then yeah, you'll get to hear about my decidedly boring 'sex life'.

But at this rate, I'll either be dead by then or sans-ovaries, so I probably won't give a shit. The guys I'm writing about—well you guys know you'll make a literary appearance somehow when you hang with me. They'll have pseudonyms out of courtesy, but whatever.

My fucking back and feet are fucking killing me. This one-week on Xeloda regiment is actually giving me worse side-effects. Despite acupuncture with Chad Thursday and an amazing massage last night.

Have I mentioned how I hate you Cancer? How I would gladly buy an Uzi and riddle you with bullets if I could? Ah, yes, I suppose I have. But here's another big Fuck You. Ta.