Oh, the Irony.
Going to point out that ironically, this post is not about cats. Just in case you thought so from the photo. This post is about tits. And cancer. And anger.
I was born with itty bitty titties.
Well I mean yeah, I was a baby so I suppose that's kind of fucking obvious.
...I'm talking about when they came in.
I think when God was handing them out, he forgot about me. Or at least forgot to work his way down the alphabet. Like to the letter B. Or C.
I got like...half of A.
This is why push up bras were invented. Thank god.
...seeing as how I only got half of A.
I think cleavage is the best accessory. Okay, maybe not the BEST accessory, but I think a lowered neckline works. My mother does not. I'm pretty sure most of our conversations since high school have included the phrase "pull your shirt up."
Now I sound slutty. So to clarify, I'm not talking about a plunging neckline down to my naval.
...Unless you're JLO in *the* dress. WERK IT GIRL.
You know the one I'm talking about.
And if not...
Although TBH, if I had that body I'd probably just walk around naked 24/7.
Do I sound slutty again? It's 2019. Get over it.
Trust me when I say, I don't have the body of JLO so the naked thing isn't going to be an issue. No one has the body of JLO but Jenny from the Block.
...I don't even think she's human at this point, TBH.
JLO's ridiculouslyperfectbodythatIamcompletelyclearlyenviousofandagainI'mgettingofftrack aside, all I'm saying is that showing a little cleavage is an art. It's a very fine line between showing not enough, showing the right amount, and showing too much which just means everyone knows you're looking for attention.
(I'm not saying my college days didn't sometimes include the latter, but still.)
Then, depression happens (a natural side effect of dating a mentally abusive, sociopathic, alcoholic asshole compounded with the fact that I was raped in my early 20's)...so we have a little weight gain going on.
Oh...because it's two-thousand fucking nineteen and this still needs to be said, I was wearing a hoodie and sweatpants when this happened.
Why does that need to be said? Because it's 2019 and we still have a bunch of idiotic kumquats with antiquated thinking that think somehow what you're wearing constitutes consent. Or at the very least "you deserved it." FYI, I don't give a flying fuck if I was standing naked in Time Square...consent is consent. Aka having to scream stop does not equal consent. GOT IT?!
I'm also going to add that this is why I was sick for so long and didn't tell many people. Aka hospitals and rape kits and hospitals and ovarian cancer which remind you of hospitals and rape kits is nothing short of traumatizing.
And now I'm sharing it with the world. Oops.
Now...where was I.
Ah yes. Tits.
Oh...BTW. If you can't tell, I'm just fucking angry enough to mean this literally.
AKA after you read what I'm about to write...I swear to God, if I get so much as one DM...you know the kind I'm talking about... (even if it's masked as a joke, with some idiotic LOL thrown in at the end bullshit) I am going to take a knife, I am going to find you, and I'm going to cut off your penis. I'm not kidding.
My roommate collects them, so I have many to choose from. Knives I mean, not severed appendages. Ask anyone that comes to visit me.
Now I'm paraphrasing here, but I've literally been DM'ed saying that because I'm sick they can "rock my world" on my last day on earth kinda thing. Or that they have a magical appendage that can cure me. I'M NOT KIDDING.
I took a screenshot of the latter and sent it to his mother. Like Lizzo said...I took a DNA test, turns out I'm 100% that bitch.
People are trash.
Rambling. AGAIN. This will all make sense shortly.
So. The depression thing I worked through. Although, at least gaining a few pounds meant I finally got the rack I had always wanted. #thepowerofpositivethinking
Then the weight gain kept coming and coming. Aka cancer.
Then came chemo and scans and biopsies and more chemo and bloodwork and radiation and every shitty thing under the fucking sun.
Then came weight loss. Lots and lots of weight loss.
Everyone tells me I look good "for being sick."
...First of all, duh. I'm fabulous.
JK, no I actually don't. (I mean, fabulous...yes. Look good? No.) Because here's the thing about gaining so much weight, is that you also get a lot of extra skin.
So, while I look "great"...I'm extremely emaciated underneath and keep losing weight. Daily.
And as a plus, my face is bloated from hormones and steroid shots. So I look normal...(patchy tan pasty balding head missing half my eyelashes and now almost an eyebrow aside.)
I'm not. Like I said. Ever heard of cachexia? Look it up.
So with all this weight loss, my tits completely deflated.
Like, breastfeeding all of your 24 children deflated.
...That's slightly dramatic, but you get the picture.
But, I didn't care. I mean I did, but I reasoned with myself that if I beat this that means I get a new set of tits...HOLLA. I always wanted a boob job anyway. (Sorry mom.)
Maybe you can see where this is going.
So this past week or so, they have been kind of sore. Pretty sore. Really sore.
The cocktail of drugs they have me on is designed to re-regulate my cycle. I used to bleed a lot (like in between periods) and finally I'm not. I just have really, really, really fucking bad periods. Wow. Over sharing really has become my thing.
Ever seen the orgy scene from American Horror Story with Lady Gaga and Matt Bomer?
...okay technically not an orgy, I think. That has to be 5 people, right?
But yeah, that slashy blood scene? That's my "period."...Don't mind me. Just living my best life.
So anyways, I just figured mother nature was about to bless me with another million dollar monthly tampon bill.
This is the part where I'm going to remind you I said I miss small tits.
This is also the part where I'm going to remind you that I said I wanted a boob job.
I don't anymore.
I want my small deflated tits back on my non-looking emaciated body.
...Yesterday, I went from negative A cup size to what I would guesstimate D. Possibly DD.
In one day. One. Fucking. Day.
I called my doctor and they rushed me in to get tests done. I have a biopsy today.
What does this mean?
This means that my last day of chemo was marked by more bullshit. This is why we can't have nice things. Or more specifically, I can't.
This means that now, along with being violated as a woman, every part of me that makes me a woman is killing me.
I don't even want children. I never did. I love children, I just don't want my own.
I'm 28. I don't want children. I have ovarian cancer. I now have breast cancer...and god only knows where else it's spread.
...These are the ironies that now plague my life.
I said I wouldn't post any more disclaimers. I lied. One more disclaimer. No this has not been confirmed by my doctor...those are the test results I am waiting on.
"You don't know anything for sure. It could be hormones or something else. Stay positive."
Yes, I do know. I know my body. I hate my body. And I do know for sure. In the words of Leslie Knope, "everything hurts and I'm dying."
So, that means there are lots of major decisions to be made, in the very near future. You know what I'm talking about.
BUT. Today is not that day. Today I'm going to go to yet ANOTHER doctor appointment. Today I'm going to cry. Today I'm going to get angry. I am angry.
I am also happy. I've never been happier, somehow. I love my tribe of people in my life. I love Saturday night dinners and trips to the beach. I love my dogs and my cats. I love the view of the garden from my window. I love watching Bravo and looking at a shirtless Jason Momoa. I love my family and friends and friends that are family.
But like I said, I'm angry. I'm really fucking angry.
I can 100% promise you that I admire those people who put on a brave face...or just are brave when dealing with something like this.
am not one of those people.