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  • Kathryn Wright

Call me Charlie Sheen...#winning

Aside from winning the genetic lottery of my own body trying to kill me...I used to excel at pretty much anything I put my mind to.


Be the best. I was the best. Or at least close to it.


...Oh.


I hope you don't think I was talking about athletics.


Because I'm pretty sure even Honey Boo Boo had more athletic ability than me at age 7, than I've had in my ENTIRE fucking life.


Watching me run is like watching...


Like watching...


......


........


(Sorry, trying to think here.)


Like watching.....you know those super awkward teenage couples you see out...like at the mall? They are sucking face, groping in all the wrong places and make everyone feel EXTREMELY uncomfortable and your only reaction is this?




Yeah.


That is your face, if you've seen me run.


This is the only reaction any normal human being would have to watching me run. And probably the semi-non normal people. And the non-normal people.


Aka everyone on earth.


Therefore...I don't run.


I'm doing my part to help mankind. You're welcome.


...What can I say? I'm my own personal hero.


Anyways, athletics aside, I was a "well rounded kid" as people say. (I was a well rounded adult too, but that's just because I got fat.)


I mean, in terms of athletics...I was a decent swimmer and I danced, but that was about it.


Personally, I attribute dance more to theater...which I loved and was great at (surprisingly, considering my serious lack of coordination.) And with swimming...I mean, I swam and didn't die. So there's that.


But yeah. I LOVED drama. I was in my first play in our community theater in 8th grade...and I found my niche.


Thank god...because being the worst kid on the sports team is just embarrassing. I think I took the "you can do anything you put your mind to" mantra a little too seriously.


No bitch, you can't. STOP.


I had very supportive parentals though. Too supportive? Is that a thing?...I mean, they still showed up to EVERY. SINGLE. GAME.


Obviously, that's a good thing. I just say this in the context of who wants to be the parents of the least talented and most athletically challenged child on the team?? Aka ME. That's just fucking embarrassing.


Sorry, Mom and Dad. Although, in my defense...THEY were the ones that let me sign up in the first place...so, yeah. I'd say we're all at fault here.


I think when God was handing out athletic ability, he forgot about me. When my brother was born, he gave mine to my brother...along with his...and like three other people's athletic ability...because he was literally MVP of every team of every sport he played.


Which, was basically all of them.


BUT. What I was lacking in zombie apocalypse survival skills (seriously, I'm the first to go)...I made up for with dramatic flair.


(FYI, I find it very unfortunate that zombies just "kill" you. If their thing was like...kidnapping you...I would be the last to go. I'm so fucking annoying, I could probably get them to pay for my Uber ride WITH surge pricing, just to get rid of me.)


Like I said, I "found the theatre" (insert dramatic boujie Nottingham stick up your ass accent here...aka Tom Brooks from 90 Day Fiance: Before the 90 Days) aka...I found home. From 8th grade on, between community theater and high school I was usually in 2 plays at a time. And TBH, I wish it was more.


(FYI, I'm making a very detailed list of where I want my ashes spread...and the PC is near the top of the list. Is that creepy? Probably. Because I think that's part of the middle school now? Eh, fuck it. I'll settle for being a ghost backstage.)


Although, if you want to get technical...I "found the theatre" (dramatic Nottingham stick up your ass accent, again) when I was about 3-4.


Okay, so technically it was the stage at my church for a Christmas program.


And technically...to be specific...I found the floor.


According to my parents anecdotal synopsis...I "didn't want to stand anymore." So apparently, I laid down and started rolling around on the ground.


What can I say....I have a flair for the dramatic.


(Siri, play Don't Hurt Yourself by Beyonce.)


I'm dramatic.


Very dramatic. Very, VERY dramatic.


I mean...I've been in denial about many things, but I've always acknowledged THIS.


Hashtag I've been developing this brand for almost 29 years...it's who I am. I can't change NOW.


Hashtag...it me.


Back to my point. I'm good at things. (Aside from math and directions and math and math and math and not using the word fuck in situations that I really shouldn't be using the word fuck.)


In high school...my best friend suggested I take mock trial. Aside from drama and classes with Mrs. Rose, this was one of my favorite classes I ever had.


I ended up winning the "best defense attorney" award. Which may sound kind of dumb...but this class changed the trajectory of my life.


I used to want to be a journalist/news anchor. I now wanted to go to law school and be a defense attorney, and when you're in high school having ACTUAL judges pick YOU out of all the schools and all the people in your league as the "best"...that's kind of awesome.


FYI, if this is where you're eye rolling because I'm being braggadocious...I've already told you I can be an annoying cunt. So yeah...you've already been warned.


...Oh. And yeah. I was also spelling bee champ in elementary school FYI, and I just spelled braggadocious right on the first try. (Honestly surprised that one worked out). Yeah...I'm fucking awesome.


I'm also annoying. I know. If it helps, I annoy myself just as much as I'm probably annoying you at this moment.


BACK TO WHAT I WAS SAYING. That whole "people know you better than you know yourself" thing is very true, because when my mock trial teacher told me I was "born to be a defense attorney" and cast me in that *role*...I did my whole dramatic schtick (yes, this was actually a schtick) and declared "NO I CAN'T. I'M FOR THE GOOD GUYS. DEFENSE ATTORNEY? I CAN'T. I WON'T. I SHAN'T."




JK. I did...and still want to.


But yeah.


Fast forward a few years. In college I had to take a "lab"...Cal Poly..."Learning By Doing" (rather ironic slogan for a college when you think about it)...but as a Communications major, what do you do for a lab?


Why thanks for asking, let me tell you.


Actually, before I tell you (OOOOHHH the suspense)...


...Let me preface this by saying all this *bragging* is working up to a point. And if it helps, I was like...a shitty person for a while, so thinking about how I was like...NOT a shitty person is helpful. ESPECIALLY when it works up to the point I'm trying to make...in 500 characters or less. J FUCKING K. (More. MUCH more).


...Also, I have cancer and this is my blog. Let me live my best life. Thanks.


SO. I know you've been holding your breath from the suspense (NOT)...but our lab was debate class.


Debate class was literally our communications lab. Although, I was 100% stoked for it, tbh.


And I loved it.


...Segueing into a debate class related anecdote:


So, because I am me and like to think that I know more than everyone else (I think reminding me of this is my mother's *favorite* hobby)...my freshman year of college I didn't like the schedule I was assigned and ended up switching all my classes and basically fucking up my whole schedule (a euphemism for my life...little did I know.) Aka I was in a junior/senior level philosophy class my FIRST QUARTER IN COLLEGE where I had to write a 30 PAGE PAPER "proving or disproving that God exists."


...


....


.....


I'm not even going to start with that one.


.............


Okay...maybe I am.


Believe or don't believe...you do you, boo...but the whole point of God is that if you do believe in him you're believing in something you CAN'T FREAKING SEE. That's literally the point. AKA HOW DO YOU FREAKING PROVE THAT?


Like I said. 30 pages, people.


Thirty. Fucking. Pages.


Actually...my paper was 36 pages. 36 or 37...one of those.


I was docked points for going over the limit. Still got an A tho.


I like to write. Can you tell?


But seriously, how the frick do you prove or disprove God exists in a paper? It's not like he's going to show up at your door, and say "hey, want to have dinner?"


"Hey, can I get a selfie with you to prove to my philosophy teacher you exist?"


...Or maybe he would show up at the door. It's just that I don't think Jason Momoa has my address.


Anyways. So my schedule of classes was all out of whack in regards to taking classes when was suggested.


Although, I went to a state school...so half the time...MOST of the time, you couldn't even get them when you needed them. But thankfully I was surrounded by some awesome people to help commiserate (hi doh doh)!


Circling back to debate. So in my debate class, a LOT of the people in my class were seniors. Much older, much wiser...and MUCH smarter, based on the fact that they weren't sporting the terrible platinum dye job that I was.


So we had all these teams and were debating the D.R.E.A.M. act...we were put in groups (or maybe we picked our groups...I can't remember) and were assigned the side of pro or con with mountains of research to do which I LOVED...I'm not kidding. (Writing research papers...because that meant you had to do research...was literally FUN for me...always has been).


So throughout the quarter, we would meet for class in different classrooms, debate each other and blah blah blah...I think the term "debate class" is pretty self explanatory.


Anyways, so the whole quarter we would have to do self evaluations and make notes on everyone (like mock trial)...and then in one of the last classes (the last? Idk...my memory is foggy) we walked in, and there were these trophies sitting on my professor's desk.


And me being me (aka loud and annoying and well...me), decided to give my commentary (that literally nobody asked for). "HAHA OMG IT'S LIKE THOSE STUPID SOCCER PARTICIPATION TROPHIES THEY GIVE OUT" HA HA HA blah blah blah.


...Or something to that effect.


Our "lab" was on Wednesday night, so I remember getting there early...aka my "haha this is so dumb" thing went on for quite a while.


Well, well, well...guess who the idiot is (was) now?


Me.


I am the idiot. I AM THE FUCKING IDIOT


I mean, I'm the idiot that got the first place trophy. AND personally recruited by my teacher for the Cal Poly debate team.


But, fuck. Talk about a walk of shame?


I was sitting there for 20 minutes talking shit on a trophy that I'm STILL talking about 9 years later because I won it and I'm still excited. Does that make me pathetic?


Yes, yes it does. #yolo


Also, #IDGAFF


(The first F is for flying, btw. I'm not stroking out and making a typo. The second F...well I'm sure you can figure that one out.)


Anyways. Yeah. So I was a winner (at everything but athletics...*cringe face*).


But a few days ago, I won the award.


Forget being spelling bee champ, forget being high school valedictorian, mock trial, debate team, participation trophies...forget it all.


FORGET IT ALLLLLLL.


(Said with the emphasis of Bethenny Frankel's "mention it all MENTION IT ALLLLL")


Guys, I won.


Well, I don't know if saying "won" or "winning" is the correct terminology.


So, let me rephrase.


I have been bequeathed with honor.


Apparently I am (and I'm saying this verbatim...)


"...And you're the hottest cancer patient I ever saw."


...


....


.....


..........


Okay, first of all...it's "the hottest cancer patient I've ever seen."


And actually, it's not even that, because we've never actually met before.


And second, third, fourth, and five millionth and five...


FUCK. OFF.


This is the kind of stimuli that produces the Gemma Teller's and Cersei Lannister's and Khaleesi's and every other bad bitch that said "fuck the man"...of the world.


(I mean, I think Cersei took that a little too far...because "the man" was her twin brother...but you get what I mean. I hope.)


Now, this is where ONCE AGAIN I have to eat my own words, because I said I wasn't going to be posting another disclaimer...and, here we are.


So, yeah. Disclaimer.


I'm currently co-existing in this space where blogging is therapeutic for me and I'm doing it for me, but I also really enjoy people reading it, but also want to say fuck it all (yes, I love the F word...obvi...I mean this more in an existentialist sense) but I also want to say I don't want to piss anyone off, but I also don't care if I piss anyone off, but I also do...but I also don't.


Shit. Say THAT 10 times fast.


I suppose what I am trying to say is that...


My current pet peeve is being told I look good.


Hold on....Let me explain.


I am female. I am human. Who doesn't want to be told they look good?!


Especially after NOT looking good for so long?


(Haiiiii Austi...yes, you still get the blanket. But only if you send me BUA.)


I mean, I look good...and I dig it. (and yeah yeah yeah I sound like a pretentious bitch...get over it. I'm dying, let me have my moment.)


Working up the energy to go anywhere is a process (fake it till ya make it, baby)...and finally getting that confidence back, it's amazing. Hence the lipstick, the headscarf, the channeling my inner Bret Michaels (HA), the tattoos, the crazy fashion, the fuck it mentality. And finally, FINALLY...


...actually, ACTUALLY being happy. It works.


It's who I used to be, and I finally worked my way back to that.


I mean, thankfully, the chemo made me lose weight, as opposed to the cancer making me fat. (That was partly depression too...don't get me wrong. But now I know, it was mostly cancer. Or a "thyroid problem" as I was told, because no one would fucking listen to me...even though I'm a woman that knows her own body better than anyone else. Fuck off Dr. O.)


And yes I'm now juxtapositioning "don't tell me I look good" and "I look great" and sound like a pretentious "see you en tee." Aka See You Next Tuesday. (I try and limit my C word usage to one per article...hi mom.) ....Although. On second thought, if I spell it out (sound it out?) does that still count?


Who knows.


It's just that...I'm really, REALLY struggling.


Aside from struggling with the fact that I forgot how creepy random men...no...BOYS...can be on the internet (I don't know who needs to hear this, but literally NO FEMALE IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE wants an unsolicited picture of your penis)...I literally HATE being told I look good...when it's related to "being sick."


Because "looking good" isn't going to keep me alive.


"Being pretty" isn't going to magically change the tumors that are manifesting their way through my body, and attempting to kill me.


...Okay, actually...one more thing related to dick pics. Honestly, if you want to get weird like that...just send a picture of a vibrator. I can 99% guarantee that would bring 100% more pleasure to a woman than your slightly blurry, UNWANTED photo of your undersized appendage that is only going to get immortalized in the group chat.


***This is Dick. Dick sent an unsolicited photo of his dick to women. Dick walked into a store, and held open the door for a woman. Dick now thinks he is a nice guy. Because he thinks he is a nice guy...he says he is a nice guy. All he does is talk about being a nice guy. DON'T BE LIKE DICK. DON'T SEND PHOTOS OF YOUR DICK. DON'T BE A DICK. Got it?***


Or, just send us a picture of Rihanna rocking Fenty. I can guarantee you she is THE quintessential girl crush.


So yeah.


...Back to what I was saying.


Cancer is such a mental battle.


I mean I'm up and down and up and down.


I try not to be, but I am.


And as a woman (who's losing everything that makes a woman...a woman), I love a good compliment. And god friggin' knows, I love being the center of attention.


(And also, I know a woman is defined by more than her parts and yeah yeah yeah...but when you're getting your tits chopped, your ovaries chopped, and are basically on doctor restrictions that your not allowed to fuck....it fucking sucks.)


Jesus. I seriously need to block my parents from reading this. Probably Jesus too, but I don't think it works that way.

But yeah. There is just something I can't shake, that grates on my nerves...and that is when I'm being given a compliment based on my looks...that's attached to the "b/c your sick sentiment"...I go postal.


I mean, I'll take a compliment. Just don't attach it to a qualifier...I look good BECAUSE I'm sick. I look good even THOUGH I'm sick.


And don't...for the love of anything and everything...tell me I look skinny.


Keeping weight ON at the moment is one of the number one battles I'm currently fighting.


My cheeks are swollen from steroid shots, and because of the weight gain from my "thyroid problem" I'm wearing my own, personalized fat suit.


So I look okay. I look good. I look like the "hottest cancer patient you've ever seen."


I'm not.


I literally call my best friend, in tears, begging him to call me fat.


...We have a weird relationship. But it works. And it's what I need at the moment.


Yeah. I realize cancer makes people uncomfortable.


It's a disease that feeds off of happiness and life and affects literally every single human being on the fucking planet, in one way or another.


Either you have it, you know someone that has it, or you know someone, that knows someone that has it.


Or...someone that had it. Which we all know, means only one of two things.


And somehow, if you are one of the "lucky ones" that isn't affected by it...


...the thing is, you're still going to be affected by "it."


Cancer might not be a universal experience. But pain is.


Everyone is affected by pain. Pain is universal. Pain doesn't adhere to social norms. Pain doesn't adhere to where you live or to how you live or any of the things we think are important.


The only thing pain adheres to...is our humanity.


Because we are all human. Which means we all feel pain.


We also feel happiness.


We laugh and we cry. We smile and we frown. We love and we hate and we make love. We convince ourselves we're in love and we fuck and we fuck up and we fuck to make up. We watch movies and dream about what could have been. We make some of those dreams come true, and then we sit and we talk and we laugh. We wish the dreams that didn't come true...did. We're thankful that some of our dreams that didn't come true...didn't. We have emotional baggage. We have a side we show to the world and a side we hide from the world, and we have a side we hide from ourselves. We have friends and best friends. We have family and we have friends that are family. We listen to music, we go to concerts, we turn songs into memories. We cry over our ex's. We internalize social norms, while externalizing social norms. We say screw social norms.


We live, and we breathe...and we feel pain.


We feel pain because we are human.


And in some fucked up way, in this fucked up world, feeling pain is actually a good thing.


Because if you're feeling pain...you're feeling.


And if you're feeling...that means you're still alive.


Happy Tuesday.

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