Jesus Freaks out in the Street

Tiny Dancer probably is my favorite song. I cannot live without this song of Elton's. It is in rotation each time I write. I think I could be addicted to this song. I love how just when you expect it to be over, it's not. It always brings me up. Remember the Almost Famous scene on the tour bus? They all were hating on each other, moody and bickering, and then Tiny Dancer comes on. And all is right with their world again.

As you all know, I've been in a real craptastic mood the past few days. Just raging. Everything's made me mad or made me cry. Part of it is my general noncancer personality. I can be bitchy, selfish, short-tempered, ugly, ungrateful, spiteful, blah blah blah. The list goes on and on. And when I am those things, you'll know it. At this moment in time though, when I have a really big reason to be happy because I am cancer-free, these horrific blue moods are, well, disconcerting. If I hadn't missed therapy for the past couple weeks, Dr. L. surely would've said what reader Audrey did in her commentalysis:

"sometimes at the end of a (VERY) long ordeal like cancer treatment there is a surge of pain and rage that's been repressed so you could use all your strength for the battle. This is NORMAL. This is part of the process. And it will pass and you will feel the relief on a much deeper level. And I hope you can take in the love and admiration for you from so many of us out here; it is huge.Your book? Will sell. If you published your blog for the last year it would be better than most of what's out there. Have faith. Your "voice" (which is spectacular) is already being heard and will continue to be. In the meantime, you are blooming where you are planted. :) Quite fabulously.xxooAudrey"

Audrey, I'm impressed with your analysis either way, but especially if you've never been therapized.

I am sick of everything. I just got my blood tests back and am officially cancer-free. Why isn't that enough? It should be, right? But it's not and here's why. I'm sick of giving, giving, giving and getting nothing back. Fucking sick of it.

The only God I believe in is karma. If I can help someone, I do what I can. Even if it's merely connecting people, which it often is. I do it. Because I can. And because I think that what goes around comes around. Well, I'm waiting. For it to come around. I've been waiting since God knows when. Since I got my master's at NYU a couple months after Sept. 11. Waiting during the ensuing two years to get a "yes" phone call about a job amid the 100s of "nos." Where did it get me? A lawsuit. Some nasty stories in Page Six, Gawker, the Post, WWD, the Daily News etc. A rapidly decreasing self-esteem. A practically forced move to Miami because I couldn't cut it in New York--career-wise, I mean.

You guys wonder how I didn't lose it when I found the cancer. Because--I'd already hit rock-bottom mentally. Several times. I was a failure when it came to the career I'd always envisioned. When I was younger, I didn't dream of marriage, kids, and a white picket fence; I dreamt of an editorial position at Vogue. At a slot in the world of journalism that I revered. Well, guess what? None of it happened. None of my silly little dreams came true. Not a one. So cancer? Nothing compared to already being a complete failure at everything you were supposed to be a success at. Cancer=an enemy I could fight. I am no threat to failure.

So fuck it. Fuck you, journalism. Fuck you, publishing. Fuck you all. You readers, some of whom are professional writers, like my writing, my "voice," which is one of the most important things in writing. And that's gratifying; I'm not bullshitting you when I say that each and every one of your comments bolsters my often low confidence in my skills.

But seriously, what is the point if I don't get paid to do this? This that my parents spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on at Emory and NYU, ostensibly to buy the education that in former decades would've ensured an illustrious career. And where has it gotten me? Scads of pro-bono writing, which is great. Happy to do it. Happy to do anything to get my story and name out there. But where will it end and what will it yield? I cost money. My life is not cheap. I spend time doing this when other people, a lot of them complete fucking hacks, get paid. to do the same thing.

How can I continue to write a book that has, as my dad so nicely pointed out when I wrote my first book, "has a one-in-a-million shot" of being published? (Thanks dad.) Is it worth wasting another several months of my life for another shot in the dark?

What is the point of me fighting cancer if I can't harness what I've gone through in a meaningful way. I can't focus on what I know I should be focusing on because I know that--writing--will only yield a 1% chance of success.

So here's the deal. I'm speaking at this Heeb event in November. It's a fantastic opportunity and is a part of the Miami Book Fair. I'm working on a large story about my cancer exp (with a twist) for the upcoming issue. And I can't get my feeble mind around the concept of how I'm going to turn this story and this storytelling event into something that will catapult my nonexistent career into an existent one.

What do I say at the bottom of my story? 'This passage is excerpted from Stephanie Green's upcoming memoir for which she has no agent and publisher.' !? Real professional right?

I need serious guidance and help from someone in the industry. I need serious, stable help. I need a life/career coach. I need a whole hell of a lot of non-material things. You guys are great and motivating. But the bottom line is none of you is in the position to give me a book deal or an assignment that pays. (Or worse yet, you are in that position and you're not that into me.) Talk about giving away the milk for free.

I have shit to do. Tonight I was going to party my ass off like it's 1999. Now all I want to do is curl up in bed with my bong and my dog. I'm sure as hell glad my dealer lets me run a tab. Because, guess what? I'm broke, as usual. I'm a real, not-so-hot mess right now. And haters, save your hating comments, I don't approve them anyway in case you haven't caught on to that fact. At least I know my haters are complete fucking morons.

I am 32 years old, cancer free, smart, funny and attractive. Some say talented. Well, where is that going to get me? So far, nowhere. I'm sick to death of being me. Sick of it. Sick, sick, sick, sick. When you have an overwhelming desire to listen to all of Elliot Smith's songs and are bald, crying, depressed and have fake, nippleless titties, sometimes it's hard to see the light. Even though I try. Maybe I'm finally PMSing. Or maybe now that all this BC BS is behind me, I have to get back to a real life that I don't have, career-wise, which scares the shit of me, with good reason.

I'm not happy. Not happy at all, people. I'm the opposite of happy. I want to scream. Instead I'm going to the gym. If I'm going to be miserable, I may as well be skinny and miserable like all the other JAPS. A JAP, that's the extent of what I am. Period. I'm resigned to that now. Fuck me. And fuck everything else that is in my way.

My CA 12-5 and CA 15-2 blood tests came back clean. I am officially cancer-free!

I am celebrating with wine, HG and a showing of Pineapple Express, which I will naturally be watching in the manner it was intended to be watched in. Fucked up.

Suck it, Cancer!

Let's Talk About Sex

I know that title got my male readers to click.

Let's talk about shoes. That just got 'em to click out.

Seriously, what I want to talk about, aside from boobies (below) is my latest obsession: Facebook. I hate myspace and had an account but went on maybe every few months. I was on the fence about Facebook and only joined a couple of months ago. Now, I fear that I spend as much time on there as I do playing with my poor, neglected dog who probably wonders what the fuck that metal object with a screen is always doing on mommy's lap. For me, Facebook is an amazing networking tool. Yeah, it's cool to catch up with 'old friends,' but I don't lose touch with really close friends, so that's not why I likey so much. Me likey because I now am 'friends' with a ton of writers/journos and other figures whom I greatly admire. And what's rad about Facebook is that since it's more intimate than myspace, a lot of these writers are actually reading my crap. Not only that, a lot of them seem to like my writing. This praise is, well, extremely fulfilling. I may not work at Vogue or even have a regular job for that matter (offices suck ass), but this silly little platform appears to be enough for now.

I also love--because I am not a phone person--that I can go on for a minute and see what my friends are up to. The status updates save time; I can see which of my friends are doing what and whether I want to join. If I owe someone a phone call but go on Facebook and see that they are slammed for the day, that buys me another day of not having to call them.

On the boob front, which I know is all you guys care about anyway, let's see. . .

When I walked into physical therapy, Muriel screamed, "Oh my God, you look so good!"

I was wearing a sleeveless cotton dress over a white tank top and cropped, white workout pants, so I was stumped. I was also sans hat or wig.

"What my shaved head?"

"Your boobs!! They're back where they should be!"

Phew.

Then I met up with Gay Boyfriend and he hadn't seen me with the new tatas. He assured me that they don't look as big in person as they do in the bathing suit picture. He hugged me hard and then released. "Oh I forgot did that hurt?"

Actually, it didn't. I do have some sensation there, but it's hard to put the level of it into words. I can feel myself touching my skin and that's about it. People keep asking me if I'll have nipple sensation, and I will, eventually. But here's the thing--maybe you ladies can help me with this one--what is the BFD about nipple sensation?

A dude sucking on my teets never did it for me. Sorry boys. I tolerated it, because clearly you guys like it. But in addition to the nips not being any sort of erogenous zone for me, it's kind of sick. It's completely Freudian and whether it's sexy or not I don't want some 32-year-old baby trying to milk me. And, yes, for the record, I think breast feeding is completely revolting. I'm sure you women who do it love it, and I have no problem with it, lord knows I've watched Cunty and Kobi latch on to Dana's African boobies enough times. But, eww, so not for me.

So there you have it, nipples--eh. Whatever. Probably another reason I didn't much care about losing the titties. I could always take 'em or leave 'em. I guess I left 'em, huh? Do gay men suck on each other's nipples? I'm going to poll my gays. Once again I've gone off on a tittie tangent. So I'll continue. Tomas has generously photographed me along the way, from pre-mastectomy to post, pre-chemo, post-chemo etc. You can see my former boobage in all their saggy glory in the above link. And, in my opinion, it's evident why I was so ready to get rid of them. Now it's time for him to snap the post-tennis ball tatas. I'd like to wait for them to settle, but I'm wondering if I should do it without nipples or put some kind of pasties on them or something. I'd like the photos to be pretty enough to enjoy, and I just don't know how I'll feel about looking at my nipple-less breastesses in print. The below shot of me he snapped just after I'd started chemo and shaved the head.

The "Time To Shop" piece behind me is one of my faves of his and it will eventually be my coffee table top when I earn some god damn money that I don't spend on stupid things. BTW, don't you guys love how many different words I can come up with for boobs? I'm so smart.

Finally, I'll be in NYC from Aug. 16th to 21. So friends, blog readers, writers, colleagues, non-perverted/psycho readers, hit me up and maybe we can do lunch. I mean drinks.

Dishalicious Does Dolly?

Well, Hemley took this photo at the Standard yesterday. I'm finally rocking the shaved head when it's too shitting hot out there. I didn't realize how HUGE my knockers look. They'll settle down (literally, down), but jeez. I hope I'm not bigger than I was before.

Nipple News

Sprinkles and I went to the Standard hotel's pool today and were hanging with a friend amid at least 15 topless women. The Standard in Miami is pretty European. So imagine my delight at a pool area riddled with boobies. Small ones, big ones, ugly ones, pretty ones, fake ones and a few pairs of real ones. So we all got into talking about size. H. is gay, but was particularly interested in this conversation topic.

"Just get the kind that most straight guys like." (Imagine an adorable Cuban accent.) "What do most straight guys like? Michael, what do you think?"

"Small, definitely."

"Me too," H. says.

"Me too," I say.

"But you should do a survey," H. says.

"I know I should."

Hence, below. If you'd like to share. I'm sure all the ladies out there are as curious as I am. It's anonymous, so vote your hearts out dudes.

What size?
	very small
	small
	medium
	large
Free polls from Pollhost.com

What color?
	light pink
	darker pink
	light brownish
	darker brownish
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Brother, aka, Sprinkles is here now. I'm feeling 99% normal. I'm amazed that after all the damage I inflicted on my body as a youth, that I heal so well. I was at the gym three days post-op and actually woke up early and dragged my Ethiopian-stomached body there today.

I'm at hospital now, in my normal bay-view room about to get Herceptin. My doctor officially told me I'm his favorite patient and that my wig is the best he's ever seen. (Holla, Ralf.) Both the female resident and Doc Schwartz were tres impressed with my boobs, which I exposed, natch. I love my new boobies, people.

So, the fucking water weight that is the bane of my wardrobe and self-esteem's existence. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. Chemo makes most women stop period-ing, and Doc thinks this has to do with the Ethiopian belly. It can take up to a YEAR to get my period back. It stopped a couple months ago. And I swear it is so depressing putting on clothes that were big on you and having them fit snugly.

And I've got my lymphedema compression garments on all the time, so I'm typing this now in a Michael-Jackson-style glove with the added bonus of an arm sleeve.

I asked the doc to order the CA 15-3 blood test and the CA 125 as well.

CA 15-3 is a tumor-marker: "Why get tested?
To monitor the response to treatment of invasive breast cancer and to watch for recurrence of the disease.

When to get tested? When you have been or are being treated for invasive breast cancer."

"CA 125 is a protein that is a so-called tumor marker or biomarker, which is a substance that is found in greater concentration in tumor cells than in other cells of the body. In particular, CA 125 is present in greater concentration in ovarian cancer cells than in other cells. Its function is not currently understood. CA stands for cancer antigen."

In other news, I feel that I had other news and I've forgotten. It was funny though. You'll have to take my word on that.

Pervy readers, ahem, male readers: Where might I go to peruse photos of topless celebrities?

Mr. Skin charges. And I didn't even know there was a Mr. Skin; I thought it was pure fiction out of Knocked Up. Turns out my friend Boner has written for them.

I got quite excited about the prospect of comparing my tatas to the Tinseltown ones, but then I realized it was not a place for me to browse for nipples on the house.

I am doing important things today like going to the pool and beach, but I wanted you guys to check out one of my reader's blogs. She is a true Cancer rockstar. I'm a beginning reader of Ellie's blog, but I was hooked after the first couple lines of her about me section.

Check it out.

Happy Sunday peeps.

i have my compression garment on my hand--got it yesterday--so no grammar/caps today.
i know i don't look like someone who just got through chemo and scads of other surgeries. it amazes even me.
today was the perfect end to a long-anticipated week.
mom's bff from atlanta popped in unexpectantly. the yacht she was on had engine probs, thwarting their trip to bimini. our luck. we got to spend the day with the ladies on the lovely high cotton. a nice, quaint, 95-footer.

high cotton

high cotton

johnny depp's boat

johnny depp's boat

Drumroll please. . .

I've never been able to don a DVF dress sans camisole or tank top underneath. Now, I can be one of those enviable bitches whose wrap dresses stay firmly in place, on top of the tatas!!!!!!!

Tada, Tatas!

The bandages are off! I look normal in a DVF dress for the first time in months. I will post photos later (clothed, sorry pervs), so check back.

We're now off for some lymphedema garments and then hopefully Neiman's, Saks or Cartier. I think I deserve an end-of-treatment gift, no? Aside from my health, which I'm grateful for, blah, blah blah. Retail therapy though--no comparison.

All is well in the chest department! Final-fucking-ly! Whoo hoo boobies, boobies, boobies, boobies in the house.

The best news? They cover the scars! I am scarless. My surgeon clearly rocks the hizzle. I feel very lucky today.

Note to new readers: I did not have a mere cosmetic boob job yesterday. The implants were the final step in my recovery from breast cancer and a double mastectomy back in February. I'm afraid it's a long story, and you'll have to read on if curiosity strikes you.

I'm feeling a little worse today. Pretty damn sore. And my throat is totally fucked from the breathing tube. Sleeping was a real bitch. Half awake, half asleep, more pain lying down than sitting up. Percocet keeps me up, but the pain is pretty severe without the pills.

Why am I typing? I cannot just sit around. The type-a part of me feels the need to whirl around the apartment Tasmanian-Devil style. Even though I'm on the water and have a great balcony, I'm already getting cabin fever. Mom's here but we can't go shopping yet. The goal is to hit Neiman's by Friday. I think I can, I think I can.

I cannot wait to try on strapless and backless frocks! A whole new world of wardrobe possibilities. And no bras. Ever again.

Photos

Keep in mind (I am telling myself this too) that I'm swollen and sunburned. I have to wear the bandages only for two days. I cannot wait to see them without the bandages. But I'm afraid those photos I won't be sharing.

I'm home. Sore. But the pain is tolerable, with the aid of Percocet, natch. I did well, and even though I'm bandaged, I can tell that the tatas look amazing. Seriously fabulous. I've never, ever had boobs that looked this good.

I'll post a photo shortly.

I want to thank so very much all the people who have reached out to me, encouraged me, complimented me, read my writing and all that good stuff. Through this site, Facebook and everywhere in between. The kindness of strangers is simply unfathomable and has restored my faith in humans.

Being sick is a great way to figure out someone's character. I've found most of my friends to be exceptional. Yet I've noticed selfishness and narcissism in some of my good friends that is incredibly disappointing and often hurtful. There are plenty of people who didn't email/call/text/reach out yesterday to wish me luck. Or today to check in. (And yes, they all knew when the surgery was. You guys all knew.)

One of my very good friends, who'd also neglected to get in touch during the time of my mastectomy, managed to disappoint and shock me further this time.

This is the Before photo. This dress will be the lithmus test for the proper placement of the new titties.

People don't understand why I'm getting new boobs--this is why. These expanders are waay higher than the implants will be. I have to wear camis under all my dresses and tops now.

Fingers crossed that will not be the case after tomorrow. . .stay tuned.

Ta-Ta, Tatas--The Boobage Recap

21 hours and counting.

I want to take the time--in case I die on the table tomorrow--to thank sincerely you guys, my lovely readers. Your encouragement, compliments, notes and comments inject me with the confidence that most writers lack. Your well-wishes, fondness for this blog and my writing means more to me than similar sentiments (about my writing) from people who know me. Natch, family members and friends "love" my blog and effusively praise my abilities, wonder why I don't just publish a book. I tell them to give me the money and I will. But seriously, there is something very profound about having 'fans' who are essentially complete strangers. It is you guys who make me write when I don't feel like it, and tell stories that I don't necessarily think are worth telling. The fact that you gain a few morsels of wisdom, humor, inspiration, what have you, from here fulfills me completely.

I'm up this early because I just had phys therapy. But I was tossing and turning all-night anyway. I'm emotional and discombobulated already. So many different emotions that blur together and make it difficult to pinpoint one concern or trepidation from another.

Last night it occurred to me, for the first time since I told my surgeons I would never have sex again because who the hell would want a single, 32-year-old freak of science. Since then, and since Beau came along shortly after, I haven't given it much thought. My guy friends who know still treat me like a hot commodity. Guys who have no idea still hit on me. That's all well and good. But now I'm wondering if there really are those guys who won't care that I'm damaged goods not only on the emotional front, but on the physical front too.

And what it has me wondering is this: Are guys who will be or are presently interested in me merely seeing me as a novelty? A circus freak? Are they morbidly curious? Do they have a perverse desire to conquest me so they can say they did it with a woman with mutilated breasts? I mean, let's face it, pre-BC, this blog's primary thrust was men and what douches most of them I've dated are. It's hellacious enough dating nowadays, even if you're pretty and polished and intelligent and funny. Did I actually think it would be easier (or even status quo) after this experience? If so, those thoughts obviously occurred to me when I was doped up.

Because today my friends, I'm feeling sorry for myself on that front. I will look whole soon in fabulous clothes. I will fill out my Narciso and Oscar dresses for the wedding. I will look good in my bikinis in Costa Rica. My jeans will showcase my tush, my hair will be glossy, my body back in shape. But underneath, things will never be the same. Ever.

Sadly, right now--well, about a week from now in reality--I will be ready to get back out there again. But I'm fearful of what or who will be 'out there.' Probably the same old schmucks who were out there before. They couldn't handle a girl with opinions, balls, humor, independence and intelligence. How are these men going to take on all that plus the not so pleasant gift that awaits them under my shirt. Talk about baggage.

I know this doesn't give you ladies facing the same thing much hope, but I'm not feeling very hopeful today. It's almost embarrassing that it took me so many months to reach this obvious conclusion, but all it takes is a minute catalyst and then I'm thrown into the mentality that most women have about losing their breasts. I'm still not mourning my former boobs. I'm mourning my future romantic prospects. And the body that I was blessed to have and never appreciated. And now I'm only getting older, wrinklier and more jaded. And more mentally unstable, if that's possible.

And now a look back at my BC journey.
The discovery of the lump. The diagnosis. I'm never going to have sex again, Doctor. A mini recap. A mini hair breakdown. The requisite inappropriate romance with the hip hop loser. The Bye-Bye Boobie Bash. Disturbing the peace. Post-op pics. Another early sign that Beau would turn out to be a complete tard. The first tears. The mom-klonopin episode. Please do not look if you are medically squeamish or do not wish to see the mutilation at these naked photos of the tennis balls.

Tomas Loewy's pre-surgery boob portraits

Let's talk about silly, unimportant things today shall we? Like my new obsession with the phrase "bitch tits," which Chelsea Handler calls her dad. Bitch tits are just a more satisfying label for man boobs. Bitch tits is so much more fun. Guys can get BC too in their bitch tits. Weird, huh? It's not that uncommon either.

My colleague at Heeb magazine introduced me to the new, hipster phrase "slam pig." I don't find that one quite as satisfying as my other favorite, "hot mess." Sorry B.A. You'll have to come up with a new one to impress me.

I am *so* beyond excited that this is my LAST WEEKEND with the tennis balls!!!!!!! I get real-fake boobies Tuesday! They changed my surgery time to 7:30 a.m., so now it's less than 90 hours away. (I think. I suck at rudimentary math. I'm a creative type you know.)

Nora, Plastic Surgeon's secretary called me yesterday as I was leaving lymph therapy.

"We've moved up your surgery time from 2 p.m. to 7:30 a.m."

"Yay, I don't have to go so long without drinking or eating."

"Yes, so be there at 7:30."

"So when is Doc getting back in town?"

"Not till Monday, why?"

"Oh damn, I wanted to sneak in some Botox. But I suppose I can wait."

She laughs. Why do these people think Botox and Breast Cancer don't go well together? I mean, you may as well kill two birds. He did it one time while my tennis balls were being inflated.

"I'll bet this is a first for you Doc, Botox and inflation at the same time."

He rolled his eyes and deadpanned, "Are you kidding me? This is South Florida."

Oh how I love the So Fla Jews and their stretched, plastic faces.

I left the lymph bandages on for 12 hours. After going to the gym and sweating in them, they itched like a motherfucker. So I rationalized that 12 hours at a time should suffice. And it was incredible; after I removed them, my left hand was 95% normal looking! And it still looks good today. Finally, good medical news!

Check out my latest accessory. Soon it'll be all the rage. Bergdorf's will be stocking them next to the Loro Pianas on the first floor, you'll see.


This is the prize at the end of the lymphedema rainbow. Nice, huh? I had my phys therapy this a.m.; I woke up on time. These bandages, which run from the tips of my fingers to the top of my arm, are the first step of treatment. Soon they will be replaced by compression garments. I'm supposed to wear this thing as much as I can, but it will probably wear out by Saturday. Thankfully, because Saturday we'll be having a Ta-Ta to the Tennis Ball Titties night out.

Fuck me. And fuck lymphedema. These bandages are very uncomfortable and seem to be deferring pain to my back, behind the left tit. I have a feeling I'm going to rip this thing off in a fit of rage later on today. I have to go to the gym, drive, walk around, eat, type, shower--the whole nine with this mummified arm.

"Tell everyone you got attacked by a shark," Phys Therapist said.

"Can I take it off before it wears out?"

"Yes, if your fingers turn blue."

"How blue? I'm really paranoid about stuff like this. My fingers are tingling already. Is that normal?"

"Yes tingling is normal. Bluer than they are right now. "

They were already a little purplish.

"Okay, so blue, blue, like your scrubs?"

"Yes, but you'll know. You'll have intense pain."

Happy, happy, joy, joy. Good god I am getting sick of this shit. Really, really, really sick of it. You assume that after the really annoying stuff like, you know, the chemo, the mastectomy, the expanders, the hair loss, the bloating, the nausea, the fatigue, blah, blah blah, that things will lighten up. But nooo, there's more! You get an encore composed of physical therapy, more nausea, colds, sweats, pain from your port moving around, dry mouth and more. AND you have to start shaving again. (God is definitely not a woman, people.)

Seriously though, this lymphedema seems like it's going to be a real bitch. There's no "cure." And there's no way to predict how long it will last or whether it will go away for good one day. My therapist is very well-respected and well-known down here. And, from what she tells me, it's a chronic condition that you can maintain and keep at bay by avoiding certain things. One of those things? Steam rooms. I heart steam rooms. I'm a spa whore. There are few things I like more than a eucalyptus-scented steam room. Especially since I'm retaining so much water now. Whenever I make it to Equinox, I use the steam room. Often, I bring my own eucalyptus spray bottle with me in case they didn't disperse enough. (Eucalyptus is a great, natural way to repel fleas and tics, so I mix it with water and spray it on Wally before walks.)

Now, I'm advised to never use steam rooms.

"Never?" I said, almost tearing up. "Never??" Even in September when I'm at the Four Seasons in Costa Rica or Canyon Ranch in Vegas? Seriously?

"Well, I'll put it to you like this. People who have high cholesterol aren't supposed to eat certain foods. And if they do it's at their own risk. So, an occasional steam might not hurt, but you just never know. You're taking a chance."

Fuck it. Bring on the cholesterol-filled omelette with a side of greasy fries and Ben & Jerry's for dessert. Beauty is pain. Never has there been a truer statement when it comes to breast cancer.

Oh, I thought you might want to see my hair-growth progress, so take a gander. There's not quite enough hair yet to make me want to sport the bald head in public, but it's almost there.

Suck it, Crotchrot

It's hotter than a nut sack on fire outside. Seriously. I'm thinking of several things today. Occasionally I have thoughts. Usually, when I think of a line or a story that I plan to write, I jot it down in a notebook, or I make my brain remember it by repeating it over and over and over.

So, let's talk about Oprah, shall we? Her name on this blog will be Crotchrot henceforth. I have a long-lasting hatred of Crotchrot and everything associated with Crotchrot. I know most of you probably worship Crotchrot. And it is still a free country--I think--so we can agree to disagree on the subject of Crotchrot. My problem with Crotchrot is that she has the biggest messiah complex of any celebrity out there. Face it, the woman thinks she is Jesus reincarnated. Or maybe she thinks she's a direct descendant of Jesus. That's entirely possible as well. This woman needs serious therapy. Or waterboarding. Crotchrot needs to get a real shrink, not Doctor Phil Guffaw. (Someone needs to shoot that motherfucker too. Or run him over with a tractor.) I have watched maybe one episode of "Oprah" in the past seven or so years. And it was the Sex and the City gals promoting the movie, so I had to watch. Crotchrot seems to evoke in her fans some sort of hallucinogenic, brainwashed mentality. Okay, why? I really, truly want to know what the hell people see in Crotchrot. Do you think she's smart? She's not. She gets swept up by these dime store, borderline retarded authors like Eckhart Tolle. Don't get me started on that douche. Anyone who's been therapized could've written those asinine books. (No offense to my new-agey friends who read him though.)

Crotchrot "reads" a book by some jokester and takes it as gospel. Then she espouses it on her "Book Club"--gimme a break, when the fuck does Crotchrot have time to read? I'd bet 100 million dollars that she makes her interns read books and then has them compile the list. I'm waiting for the show where Crotchrot brings out her own stone tablets and proceeds to edit the Ten Commandments. So, a very profound thought occurred to me while I was showering last night. (I actually have to shower regularly now because I have hair again.)

Here it is: If Crotchrot decided to use her power for evil, she would be our generation's Hitler. Think about it, if Crotchrot started her own political party, her acolytes would follow her to the gas chamber if she told them that's where her fucking book club was meeting. If Karl Marx were alive today, he would proclaim that "Oprah is the opiate of the masses." I'm certain of it. And though I've never read anything by Jonathan Franzen, he is my hero for refusing to be in Crotchrot's book club. Go muff diving with Gail and just shut the fuck up already, Crotchrot. Thus, another unlikely hero emerged yesterday. Kid Rock proclaimed: "My real-life villain... Oprah Winfrey, she rubs me up the wrong way. I just don't believe her. Maybe it's because I'm not one of the 150 million brainwashed women who heed her every word." Hells yeah. (Let's ignore the fact that he said "rubs me up" instead of "rubs me." They don't have very good schools in trailer parks so we can't blame him.)

I have another major dilemma today. And it's a doozy. You guys know I am not a morning person. Early rising up for me means 11 a.m.. Typically I go to bed around 2 or 3 a.m. and sleep for at least nine hours. However, tomorrow I have a physical therapy appointment for my lymphedema arm at 8 a.m. This means I have to be asleep by 11 p.m. at the latest to squeeze in my requisite eight hours of sleep. I got up at 12 p.m. today. So I'll have been awake for only 11 hours today. That's pretty pathetic. But I've managed to cram a lot into today. When I know I have to wake up early though, I toss and turn all night telling myself to go to sleep cause I have to get up soon. Natch, that results in me looking at the clock every hour, and yelling at myself to "go to sleep already you dumb bitch you have to be up at 7 a.m.!" So I'll pop four Xanax tonight, I think. (Spare me the lecture, Dad, they're only .5 mg each. And I have Cancer so I can take all the drugs I like. Ha ha.) Which means I'll have to take the pills at 10 p.m. I ate dinner last night at 10 p.m. people. I'm very worried about this.

And finally, on a completely unrelated note, does anyone know the shortcut for an em dash on a PC? I'm lost. I'll post some photos of my sprouting hair later, probably at 3 a.m. when I'm not sleeping.