Lack-of-control cocktails don’t appear tasty. Today’s story is brought to you by cancer. That motherfucking monster that enters a room, a body, and decides you ~ grandly joyful energizer-bunny-entity with a sunbeam for a soul is better-suited filling waste bins with your soggy tear-stained tissues, furiously masturbating the mind-melting away like Satan himself is trying to wield the entering of your tomb of sacred sweetness and hell NO are you gonna grant that boner anywhere near any openings as climax grounds you into a release of this ugly craptastic C-word energy. Wiping worries out of range requires bacon-bits of woo-woo (assuming you’re a hog-whore such as moi, or you may substitute your preferred food/thought of choice). Unlucky charms are those articles of faith procured through all of our peltings. It’s the sprinkling of yummy treats atop darn close to anything that provides us some sense of relief.
As discussed many occasions before (for you devout two or three followers so far, thank you!) I’m food and sex-motivated. I adore a good meal that fills me with lip-smacking wonders. (Hint, hint, equal to sensual sexiness; commented for you potential suitors). For example, bacon dipped in dark chocolate laid over coffee ice cream, tossed within almost any salad (save that weird Greek godly Ambrosia stuff that’s supposed to curb death, which I used to down as fast as I’d gulp Gatorade after a teenage tennis lesson), or as a favorite crumbled snack trail mix treat is a soothing sedative for my woes to every week. Food is a medicine, my goal is not to abuse. Much as I trust you clever druggies maintain your dosing while hoping to coast through careers. But let’s reverse to the main event. Though digressing has been known to show itself as a form of me heeding distressing calls of my wild unknowns.
CANCER: It’s pronounced “can-sir”. I recently took that to heart to allow a little rumination meditation. Suffice it to sort that pondering has its potency. I’m a yes-girl by trade and history, who’s reported as such to troops-worth of men. You may extrapolate on your own accord. For a gal who prides herself on a (s/)lack of vanity, slicing (my cancer diciness) on your face is a wake-up field to furthering one’s serious truth. I’m standing (ok, it’s rather a wicked wobble) semi-corrected in my aforementions about conceit. What I’ve meant by my disinterest in makeup, fashion, and all of that jazzery blingness is just please don’t make me think you need it to love me. I didn’t mean to imply that scraping layer upon layer of my derma is ok! Maybe the, my, nose really does know?!! So, another tumor surgery had snuck up on me. Forty-eight hours prior to this keystroking, on the 27th of March exactly.
(Disclaimer to the next few sentences: it’s doubtful you’ll approve for children, teens, or your adult selves in that wholly clean harnessing-happiness way I’m prone to delivering.) Dark humor is my hateful-heartcore-issues bedfellow. I carry that sucker around in the crevices of my snarkiest corners for any instances when whammies are unwarranted. Continue to consume at your own risk. I can bend over and take it in the ass. I’ve proven this more moments than my parents, other family, or some friends, unfortunately, thought to learn. Chiefly, figuratively. And, honestly, literally too. Both performed poorly are gross. Cancer touches you similar to an extremely bad butt-raping, or all of the kind for that matter. You’re never the same afterward. Here was my third time to cut that shit out of my physique. But, how, now, again, still, to delve as the deepest sea divers to the depths you cannot seem to see at all in hopes to metaphorically angle all of these cutting things out that don’t serve me well to note whatever this symbolizes.
Quite probably, you haven’t had to rely on me to tell you that life can be the devil’s advocate. In the midst of the March 17th greeny-festivities shin-dig hang with friends, my phone rang at precisely 1:08pm. An allegorically righteous timing. A week previous, this heavily-Ireland-ancestrally-laden lass had wisely gone to her dermatologist when a recurringly irritant nose spot inflamed to the state of bleeding early March for a couple of days. Yet, the luck o’ the Irish blood in me was to be damned a fresh spin and clearly wasn’t shining brightly my direction on this fated St. Paddy’s date. My darling doc and I joked how it made me a new member of the Trifecta Club ~ those who’ve incurred all three types of primary skin cancer (heads up, super-stomach-churners beware to eyeball the link at your visual discretion), in unhappy order for me: melanoma, basal cell carcinoma, and squamous (I’ve redubbed sqeamous) cell carcinoma. Eroding sorely has an additional narrative to speak about my origin excavation. They do say three times is a charm.
I remember that in my nature-romping youth-and-ease unsophisticated early years I found at least one four-leafed clover. I’m fairly certain it’s buried in my storage unit, pressed between the pages of some poetry, intended for an undeveloped scrapbook I’ve eternally thought about creating. However, I believe I actually held it. I’ll always keep that champion discovery emotion sealed with my sense of self. Every time I see a patch of these magically delicious bright emerald plant-beings smiling their tiny hearts back at me I have to stop. I’m passionately connected to the luck I trusted this itty-bitty birth was bringing to my livelihood. Currently, I’m seeking to translate for the senior version of that kid that cancer is merely a fluke of that fortune. Perhaps the catalyst to draw me back into that realm of childlike innocence. A place where I walk with the spirit of freedom, ease, play, and profound impossibilities becoming very real.
Dire decoys drastic measures ask for dragon-slaying intimacy techniques. #fuckcancer