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  • Kathryn Wright

It's Vodka.

I am so sick and tired of being told that I'm not going to die. Everyone dies.


...My death just might occur sooner than I would like.


I realize that saying this makes people very uncomfortable. Want to know what makes me uncomfortable?


Cancer. Chemo. Needle aspirations. Liver biopsies. A pancreatic biopsy. More chemo. Radiation. MRI's. Scans. Oxygen therapy. Anaphylactic shock.


More cancer. More chemo. More radiation. Nerve damage. Hair loss. Pain pills. Test results. Cachexia. Chemo brain. Iron infusions. More scans. Surgery. Panic attacks. The unknown, unforeseeable future.


Also...Lena Dunham. And well-done steak. And mayonnaise. And paisley print. And people that can't differentiate between their, there, and they're. Or your and you're. And, anyone that has a "live, laugh, love" sign as decor. More like I'm going to live (I hope), laugh (at you), and love...to tell you to STFU. I'm a bitter bitch. Can you tell?


But yeah. The heat.


I hate the heat.


Like...not to be dramatic or anything, but I think out of anyone and everyone that has ever lived, is living, or will live on this planet...I hate the heat more than them.


I'm serious.


Like anyone, I hate anything that inconveniences my life. And for me, that means the heat.


Oh, and cancer. And that stupid intersection by KMJ that takes a million years for the light to change. And waiting in the Starbucks drive-thru. And when they run out of samples at Costco.


But yeah. I definitely hate the heat most of all.


For example...


Exhibit A. I was 4 years old. I joined t-ball. And due to my spectacular athletic ability, I was put in the outfield.


JK. I sucked. I quit halfway through the game after having a total meltdown.


Not that there's anything wrong with being placed in an outfield position...but let's be honest. When you are placed in a place that's the furthest from home plate you can get...at FOUR YEARS OLD...that means you suck.


It was traumatizing. I don't mean being in the outfield. I mean being in the outfield in the heat.


Seriously, we're talking about the kind of heat that affected me to the point I couldn't even be the little lazy ass that sat down and picked flowers.


Who wants to pick flowers when it's hot?


NOT ME. Not today Satan...not today.


Exhibit B. Exhibit C. Exhibit D. Exhibit(s) E-Z: My 8th grade graduation. Wild Waters. Shaver Lake. Huntington Lake. Camping at Woody. The Cage the Elephant concert in the quad at Cal Poly. Millerton lake. Driving with the sunroof open. Pismo beach in 10th grade. Living. Breathing. Doing anything that involves living and breathing....aka living and breathing.


What do these all have in common? THE SUN. My mortal enemy.


I HATE THE SUN. There, I said it.


I mean, I like it in the sense of providing life and all that sciencey stuff that tells me apparently it's useful or whatever. But personally, I don't like it. It is NOT my friend.


So yeah.


I've never done one of those DNA kits. You know the ones I'm talking about? The 23 and me andyouandheandsheandbullshit or whatever. The thing is, I don't need to. I know who I am.


...I am literally the whitest person on the planet. I am the person that gets sunburned walking from my house to my car. I am the person that was skipped when God was handing out skin pigmentation. Clearly he was hungover dealing with the whole Jesus and wine situation and forgot about me.


...Or was Jesus the hungover one? Idk. I'm confused.


But yeah. I am the person that gets sunburned in the shade.


IN THE SHADE, PEOPLE.


I'm not kidding.


Last year, I went camping for my birthday. I stayed in the shade the entire time. AND I STILL GOT THE WORST SUNBURN OF MY ENTIRE LIFE. Let me repeat this for dramatic effect slash emphasis. THE WORST SUNBURN OF MY ENTIRE LIFE TOOK PLACE IN THE FUCKING SHADE.


So, yeah. Like I said. The sun is not my friend. Apparently neither is the shade.


I legit still have an outline of the sports bra I was wearing that weekend imprinted on my body.


Over a year later.


fml.


F M L.


WHY ME.


Although, I'll take the sunburn over the whole cancer thing any day.


However, at the rate I'm going...just add melanoma to my "rap sheet."


I mean, I wouldn't be surprised. Nothing surprises me anymore....Aside from the fact that Orlando Bloom is dating Katy Perry. Although, maybe that's not surprising. Just personally offensive. THAT'S MY MAN, BEEZY.


Ugh.


...I'm always being told to find the upside. Look for the positive.


That is not who I am.


I'm not negative, I'm just realistic.


My roommate, however, is the quintessential, eternal optimist. Our varying outlooks on life means...there is a lot of *spirited* conversation in this house. Thankfully, he does push the whole positivity thing. Which I (at times)..when I go to the dark place, still think is bullshit. But honestly...I probably would have flung myself into rush hour traffic at this point if not. So I am truly grateful. Grateful. Ha. I don't even know what to call it. That feels like the understatement of a lifetime.


...OKAY. Back to the heat. Finding the positive.


*Internal monologue*...Think. Think. Think.


"OKAY. The heat is good because..."


...


....


.....


That means Orlando Bloom is probably going to take his shirt off. Also, Jason Momoa.


And TMZ is probably going to take a photo.


AKA I am probably going to be very happy looking at this photo.


Not that I need to justify my fantasies...but Orlando is a long lost love of mine. We have a history. HE WAS THE FIRST BOY POSTER (my mother approved?) TO PUT UP ON MY BEDROOM WALL. My first love. Oh, William Turner, how I love thee. 10/10 Don't understand how this happened...because my taste in men has certainly changed. But...let's be honest. He's still got it. SEE?! MANIFEST THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING.


...Brb need to go take a shower because all this positivity is making me extremely uncomfortable. Ick.


Okay. Back to reality.


My reality.


aka...


...I hate the heat. Aka I hate headscarves. AKA I HATE HEADSCARVES.


Like, it would be really nice if I could have a break from this bullshit during the summer months cause this shit is hot. I'm sick of having to spend extra time getting ready for hair that isn't even on my fucking head.


So. Last week, I went to dinner at 13 Prime Steak. (Seriously, if you're in the Central Valley, GO THERE. This is not a "plug"...I am not a social media influencer (neither are you, btw.) But seriously, GO. They are amazing.)


Ugh...BRB craving their steak and lobster and creme brulee right now....Going to ransack the kitchen.


...


....


.....


The upside to this whole cancer thing is that at this point, I can eat what I want and still lose weight! YAY! AKA steak and lobster and creme brulee.


The downside is the whole losing weight thing, which could kill me thing, because of this whole cancer thing...which involves headscarves.


In Fresno.


During summertime.


In the heat.


Because it's summertime.


Kill. Me. Now.


JKJKJK. DON'T. PLEASE.


But, yeah.


So last weekend, like I said, we went out to dinner. My celebratory "chemo is over (for now)" dinner...oh, also my GUESS WHAT YOU HAVE BREAST CANCER AND NEED TO GET YOUR TITS CHOPPED OFF CONGRATS DINNER.


Okay, so I added the last part. It was just a chemo is over dinner. Thankfully the amazing food offset the whole "your cancer has spread and you need to get your tits chopped" thing. Yeah. This place is THAT good.


So, in the spirit of the irony that is now my life...it takes me SO MUCH longer to get ready. I haven't figured out this whole headscarf thing yet. Although in an ironic twist, getting ready is so much more fun now because I'm not a fat fucking cow anymore. I mean, I'm an emaciated, dramatic, balding....me. BUT. I have my wonderful former fat excess skin suit on...so aside from my swollen cheeks from steroids, bloated stomach from tumors, and swollen tits from breast cancer...with the help of a little spanx and a good push up bra, I can still rock it. I think.


JK. I don't need a push up bra considering the whole swollen tits situation going on over here.


Ugh. Whatever. Just let me have my moment.


**FYI note to self...I seriously need to get a plain black head scarf. That will make things so much easier to match my wardrobe. Aka match-ier. Is that even a word? Probably not. But you know what I mean.


Anyways. So I start getting ready like an hour earlier than normal. Hour, half an hour?...not sure which. But you get my drift. I literally wore all black just so I could match the traces of black in my headscarf. Okay YES probably would have worn all black anyway, but still.


I also planned my lipstick color to match the scarf. Copasetic aesthetic, y'all.


I started getting ready.


...I showered.

YAY. GOODBYE MORE HAIR.


I did my makeup.

I curled my hair (what's left of it).


Thankfully, at this point...for the most part if I just cover the front of my head, I look like I have hair. Aka if I wear a big headband or scarf I can get away with having a semblance of hair.


Okay. Head scarf time. I put my headscarf on.


...NOPE. Not working.


I took it off. I fixed it and put it on again.


...NOPE.


Again, I fixed it.


...NOPE.


NOPENOPENOPENOPENOPE.


This whole "attempting to get ready" thing happens to happen while I'm listening to (very loudly) one of my favorite bands..."In This Moment."


And in this moment...in that moment, I just get pissed.


I'm irritated. I'm legitimately pissed. I'm on the verge of throwing a full on adult temper-tantrum.


I'm PMS-ing...whatever the fuck that means anymore. My face is sweating. I'm having a hot flash. I'm hot. It's hot. I stare at myself in the mirror, and my internal monologue goes something like this:


"FUCK THIS."


JK. My internal monologue went exactly like that.


Seriously. FUCK THIS.


FUCK THIS FUCK THIS FUCK EVERYTHING I LITERALLY FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING IN THIS FUCKING MOMENT.


And then, I can't help but think of one of my favorite shows. Shameless.


Aka Lip. Phillip Gallagher.


More specifically...his shirt. The shirt. THE shirt.


Because that's how I feel about the scarf on my head.


Literally.


Fuck you. You FUCKING FUCK.


And FUCK YOU CANCER. FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.


I'm not going to apologize for my language, because I'm shaking as I write this. Because I'm fucking angry. And scared. And terrified. And mad. And this is the most honest I've been in God knows how long. So yeah.


I'm cursing.


Cursing the world. Cursing my body. Cursing the pain. Cursing the pain others have caused me. Cursing the pain I have caused others. Cursing everything. Cursing anything. Cursing anything and everything. Cursing this moment. Cursing that moment. *Cursingthisstupidheadscarfthatisruiningmyfuckingoutfiteventhoughithoughtitwouldmatch.*


God, I am so angry.


So, so fucking angry.


I go into Fiona rage mode.


I realize this reference won't make sense if you haven't seen the show Shameless. But if you have, this is that introspective camera zoom moment where Fiona is about to fuck Frank up...and/or go all Fiona Gallagher on anyone.


And then I just get exasperated. And the heat is NOT helping.


We're in full on adult temper tantrum mode here, folks.


SCREW THIS.


I rip the scarf off my head.


I rip the scarf off my head, look in the mirror and say...


FUCK YOU CANCER.


...Full Fiona style.


Because, what the hell am I doing.


WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING.


Because in this moment, at this moment...I don't give a shit about wearing a headscarf.


I don't give a shit if I have a bald spot. ...Bald spots.


I don't give a shit if my patchy hair makes you uncomfortable.


I'm sweating. I'm hungry.


I make an executive decision to not wear the scarf. So I didn't wear the scarf.


And yeah. People were staring at me when I went to dinner.


Stare away.


STARE AWAY.




IT'S A BALD SPOT.


GET THE FUCK OVER IT.


...Or at this point, maybe it's vodka AND a bald spot. Who knows.

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