I hate numbers.
I have had many people reach out to me, saying they enjoy reading my blog for its dark humor and cynicism.
I can assure you there is going to be no humor in this. This one is just dark.
I will probably hold on to the cynicism. I can't help it. Aka if you choose to read this, buckle the fuck up. And don't @ me.
I've been awake since around 4:30 this morning. My puppy died. My rescue puppy. (FYI, my puppy died yesterday. I started writing this yesterday, but finished and posting today.)
I've been sobbing since 4:30 this morning.
And trust me folks, it's not a pretty sight. I am an UGLY crier. Not that this matters...but, I am.
I am so, so not okay.
My puppy died. He was cold. He was lifeless. His body shut down. My puppy fucking died.
My rescue puppy.
Our rescue puppy.
Our parvo puppy.
This parvo puppy.
My parvo puppy.
We buried him. I cried. I haven't stopped crying. I can't stop crying.
Trust me, I get it. Puppies are cute. Animals are cute. Who doesn't love a puppy? Everyone loves puppies.
...This puppy was different.
This was my first puppy. Like...PUPPY puppy. I felt like this was my child. I could teach him, mold him, love him. Raise him. When I got my first dog, I told my mom "welp, this is all the grandkids you are going to get from me...so love her like one." But she was 6 years old. He was 8 weeks. This was her second grandchild from me.
I don't want children. I love children. But I don't want them.
I suppose that's the one upside to my upcoming "total abdominal hysterectomy with bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy." Oh, and "double mastectomy." I don't know why I always put those in quotes. I can't help it.
Although, in my current series of FML's, it's not even like I have a CHANCE of having kids at the moment.
...How do I say this.
I LITERALLY HAVE THE KIND OF CANCER THAT PREVENTS ME FROM HAVING SEX.
I have been forbidden by my doctor. Apparently this can cause MORE ovarian pain...along with other BS. More so than the debilitating BS that I'm ALREADY dealing with.
Oh, it can also cause oversharing...apparently.
How is this my life.
No wonder I'm so pissed off and stressed out at the moment. 2 + 2 - an orgasm(s) doesn't equal 4. FML.
Ironically...I don't even have the energy to have sex right now. But yeah. This is my life. I've been blessed with a sexless life. Jesus, I should have just gotten married.
Also, a getting my tits chopped off life.
And being gutted like a fish life.
Yeah...I'm going to bring that up a lot until this happens. It's a processing mechanism.
Then I'll probably complain every day about it afterwards. Sorry.
Although at the moment, based on the pain I am in...take the girls. TAKE THEM TAKE THEM TAKE THEM. The sooner the better.
I hurt. I cry. I'm angry.
...And I'm angry my dog died. And very sad.
And I'm very sad, because without a doubt, my roommate is one of the best people I have ever met.
And because it was his idea to get this dog, he feels like he let me down.
I told him he didn't, he hasn't...honestly, he can't.
Yeah. He's that good of a person.
I know he doesn't believe me. But he didn't let me down. Because there's only so much you can do. And we did everything we could. And when I say everything, I mean EVERYTHING.
And then, I start to think. Think. Overthink? It's all I do nowadays.
My roommate is not a fan of the constant barrage of "what if" scenarios. I get it. I wouldn't be either.
But, I can't help it.
I also can't help that he's an eternal optimist. I'm a realist, with a side of pessimism and a splash of optimism.
Thankfully I make really good peanut butter brownies that I think helps make up for my "what if's." Not fully, but every little bit (bite?) helps, right?
So yeah. My dog died. Our dog died.
And in between my "I can't even breathe I'm crying so fucking hard red eyed sobbing," I couldn't help but think.
...I haven't even had this puppy for two weeks.
I'm crying so hard I can't breathe, over a dog that I've known for less than 14 days.
My parents have known me for 28 years.
28 years, 5 months, and 3 days.
...I was born on the first day of the month. Today is the 3rd. Does that make it 3 days or 2? IDK. I don't do math. You get the drift.
And then yeah. Give or take 9 months on top of that. I think that's how long it takes to bake a baby.
I think about my family, my best friends, my friends.
...I mean, I'm not going to say I'm anything "special."
Or okay, maybe I am. Because, I mean...I know I am. I just mean you don't have to think so. Although I am fully channeling the energy of Lizzo today, so that probably has a lot to do with it. Lizzo and 'Yonce, yo. (Headscarf life.)
It's just really hard.
I know, I know, I whine a lot...Although, maybe that has to do a lot with the whole I can't "wine" a lot, at the moment. Ugh.
Or the cancer/possible impending death thing. So I'm giving myself a pass, all things considered.
...Although, I would...and shh, don't tell anyone...But I would definitely still be whining about something at the moment no matter what. Or do tell...IDC. My life is already a shit show.
Exhibit A: Cancer
Exhibit B: Cancer
Exhibit C: Cancer
Exhibit D: My dog died. This dog.
And THEN, I walk into the mother fucking pet store yesterday, less than 6 hours later after burying my dog...and I realize that I have fully pissed off someone up above because this is the first thing I see when I walk in.
A tiny little dog bed with an ironic quote.
Like I said. I ugly cry. I ugly cried. Hard.
And this is normally a thing I could laugh at with my fucked up sense of humor. I can't laugh at this. That's how upset I am.
AKA I am not okay. My dog fucking died and I hate everything.
But these are the moments where I think about how the hole that currently exists in my heart from losing him, will exist in everyone else's if/when/if I don't beat this.
...Fun fact about me....I don't do math.
I hate math. I HATE math.
But, math is the only thing that matters anymore.
Math. Numbers. Same difference.
Numbers are the current regime that currently affect anything and everything in my life. Every waking moment of every fucking waking day.
...At least I woke up? FML.
Numbers. Fuck numbers.
The numbers in my white blood cell count...too low. The number on the scale showing the amount of weight I have lost...too much. The number of days until my surgery...too many, and yet...too few. The number of pills I've taken today...too many. The number of pills I still have to take...too many.
The number of days until my next round of chemo.
The number of treatments I have to have.
The number of times I get to see my my best friends again, who mostly all live out of state.
The number of times I get to go see my parents again....My family again.
The number of times I get to go to dinner and laugh with friends.
The number of minutes in my next panic attack.
The number of minutes UNTIL my next panic attack.
The number of times I get to watch Lord of the Rings again.
The number of times I get to read Harry Potter again.
The number of times I get to listen to Lana again.
The number of times I have to have a fucking IV stuck in my arm, again.
The number 4.
The number of tits I'm about to lose....Although maybe that's a pronoun. Aka BOTH.
The number of days recovery will take from surgery.
...........And if surgery doesn't work, the number of days until I stop breathing.
The number of times my mom and dad are going to cry if I stop breathing.
The number of times my friends are going to cry if I stop breathing.
The number of people that are going to attend my funeral.
The number of moments I have left.
The number the number the number THE FUCKING NUMBER THE FUCKING NUMBERS.
I hate numbers.
I HATE NUMBERS.
I always knew I hated math.
Fuck it all.
RIP Rambo. I love you.