The one where I can't think of a title.
I watch Bravo.
Like, a LOT of Bravo.
Personally, *I* don’t think there’s such a thing as watching too much of it. But if there was such a thing, I am the poster child.
When I say I watch a lot a Bravo and love Bravo...like I’m talking I want my ashes sprinkled at BravoCon.
…I’m not kidding.
I mean, not ALL of them. But still, some.
Also…on a related yet unrelated note, I just found out that one of my best friends in NYC knows people that are good friends with Sonja Morgan. Aka I’m friends with Sonja Morgan.
The fact that I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows Sonja is not important.
The important detail here is that I am now friends with Sonja Morgan.
…Like I said in an earlier post, I ramble.
Back to what I was saying. At the moment, based on current events...aka death (apparently that can be a side effect of cancer), I’m trying REALLY HARD to not piss off the guy upstairs.
Or at least not more than I already have.
I’m going to say this very quietly, so hopefully he won’t hear.
Bravo is basically my religion. **looks at ceiling for lightning to strike**
We’re good. I’m still here.
…..I lied. My cat just freaked and ran out of the room. Although she definitely is a little deets, so that's somewhat normal behavior. But still. Definitely rethinking this.
Definitely didn’t think this through. I mean, someone who has the power to send people to heaven and hell can probably aka most definitely hear me say Bravo is basically my religion and Andy Cohen is my leader.
Fuck. Now I’m just making this worse.
...“Hear that.” Read that. Read that? Does God read? I mean, he did write the Bible. Or he told people what to write...so he knows what’s in it. What else would he need to read?
Okay there are obviously many sarcastic answers I could insert here. I’m getting off track, so I’m going to move on. But before I do...this is the part where I’m going to post a disclaimer that: A) I refuse to engage in any religious conversations over this so don’t @ me. And B) this is the last disclaimer about posting a disclaimer that I’m going to post.
Moving on. So...*hopefully* there are no lightning strikes today. But even if not, today has been nothing short of traumatizing.
To start: I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that I won’t be going to BravoCon. Actually…that’s a lie. I’m never going to come to terms with that. I’ve also had to come to terms with the fact that God definitely and fully knows that I said Bravo was my religion…...Ya know, seeing as how he’s God and all.
He, she, it, them…pick a pronoun. It’s 2019.
I mean, in my defense I said BASICALLY my religion. But still. I think this might be considered blasphemous. (Siri, play Highway to Hell by AC/DC).
I’m justifying this in my head that all things considered, most “Bravolebrities” are going to end up in hell anyway. So hey. At least if I do get sent there, this means I get to go to BravoCon. Although if I have to spend eternity with T-Rav and Trashley and Danielle Staub and Icky Vicki and the “#100th housewife,” I will kill myself.
Oh wait. I’m already dead.
FYI…for very obvious reasons I’m very personally invested in the Vicki Brooks scam...although apparently not enough to stop watching the network. Aka I have no self-respect...just cancer. Too bad Brooks can’t say the same.
Getting distracted. Again. I swear this whole post is working up to a point. But before I get there, I have a question. If you have the personality of a dryer sheet, like said 100th housewife (who said she was the 100th housewife 100 million fucking times)…do you actually get sent to heaven or hell? Or do you just get put aside for God to deal with later because you are so boring?
Kind of like laundry.
Or working out.
Or breaking things off with the guy your dating but not actually dating because he’s sleeping with other people and you know that... but in "his defense" the sex is semi decent (even though he’s never made you orgasm...which means it sucks fyi) but he calls you beautiful instead of hot (which means he "cares about you") and therefore he’s a better option than that guy you met on Tinder who won’t stop sending you messages telling you he’s a *nice guy* aka CREEP which is now immortalized in a screenshot in the group chat?
Back to going to hell. Downside? Vicki Gunvalson. Upside? At least a crematory and judgement is cheaper than a BravoCon ticket.
(In case you haven’t picked up on this, this post is going to be a long one. I was literally the person who became severely stressed in college when I had a paper due with a low word count. Like I said, I like to write.)
Gross. Now I sound like a nerd. Or a nark. FYI nerds are cool. I mean the cool nerds are cool.
No one likes a nark. Don’t be a nark.
ANYWAYS in case I haven’t fully explained my love of Bravo in the 453159186055 characters I’ve written so far I am going to give you an example. Drumroll pleaseeee….My Instagram.
More specifically, the ratio of the people I follow vs the people that follow me.
Before I continue...aka in my defense…I’m 28. I was graduating high school during the most critical time in United States history. Possibly even the world.
The moment everything changed.
A moment that will live in infamy.
...When Facebook replaced MySpace. Aka Tom the creep lost to Zuck the lizard.
So while social media was obviously in existence during this time (I mean, I had a MySpace) this whole YOUR SOCIAL STATUS AND LEVEL OF SOCIALLY ASSIGNED WEIRDNESS DEPENDS ON THE RATIO OF PEOPLE WHO FOLLOW YOU VS. THE AMOUNT OF PEOPLE YOU FOLLOW was before my time.
Follower count is not something I pay attention to. Like Snapchat streaks. Or Ariana Grande music. Or anything Lena Dunham related.
But yeah. My instagram follower/followee? (is that a thing) ratio is extremely...ir-ratio-nal. Ha. See what I did there?
Not that I care. I mean I did when my best friends younger brother completely schooled me and made me feel inadequate as a human being based on said ratio. He’s 16.
Then my hair fell out and I adapted.
Okay...there were many things that occurred in-between those two incidents (like logic and reason and MAMA DIDNT RAISE NO BITCH kind of hype game)...but you get the point.
But my follower ratio is completely disproportionate.
I’m sure by now, you can see where this is going. I have an explanation for this issue.
One word...Bravo. Or two words...Andy Cohen. Take your pick.
Picture this. Second year of college. Your sociopathic boyfriend buys you a TV (but of course you don’t realize he’s a sociopath because he says all the right things after saying all the wrong things. He says that he LOVES YOU, which of course makes up for EVERY shitty thing he does. Which is all your fault. Not to mention, he also buys you a REALLY COOL TV which rocks because you didn’t have one and even though he’s mentally abusive and just a generally shitty human you now have a TV and can finally get cable in your first college apartment. And he tells you he loves you so this means you can be manipulated into thinking you are loved while watching cable.) YAYYYY!
So. TV is all set up. Cable is installed.
(FYI...we didn’t last, if you couldn’t tell.)
So I scroll the channels....and then it happened. My whole life changed.
I’m sure this was a re-run at the time. But Tamra Barney was screaming, tossing a glass of wine in Jeana Keough’s face....You know, when RHOC was still good. (*cough cough Andy Cohen*).
And then one thing led to another.
...Aka one show led to another show.
...Aka you can’t just follow ONE housewife on instagram (hence the disproportion.) I mean, there’s so many franchises. And spouses. And friends. And people in general.
And then after RHOC...I found RHOBH. (COUGH COUGH ANDY COHEN FIX THIS PLZ).
I mean, if we want to get technical...we have a whole SITUATION here.
We have this.
We have this.
I mean, we’re talking quintessential pop culture here. The Kardashian/Jenner/Hadid/Foster connection?
And...they are PROCREATING. THAT MEANS THERE'S MORE OF THEM. Like, it’s a full time job keeping up with all of this.
And just when you tune out...we have a whole KAITLYNN CARTER AND MILEY CYRUS SITUATION.
HELLO?! This is the stuff that needs a constant, vigilant watch.
...FYI I consistently keep up with politics and world events as well. I’ve been blessed with the ability of an amazing support system and not having to work at the moment so I can focus on my health.
...AKA I have no life.
Well that’s a lie. I have chemo and scans and biopsy's and bloodwork. And pop culture. I would say and politics...but I think nowadays that’s inclusive with pop culture.
But I suppose that’s the upside to my cancer. I now have the time to stay up to date with all of this. Aka when/if I kick it, I can die knowing that I made the most of every moment. I used my last moments on earth to attain all the knowledge I could.
I mean...#foftygate was essentially a college crash course in economics. T-Rav was a crash course in political science.
Jax alone is a full course load (...see what I did there?). Aka Psychology, Human Health, and Criminology 101.
I could go on, but I’m assuming you get my drift (June, June, Hannah?).
I realize this is going to make no sense to the non-bravo people out there. Well, that’s your fault. You are missing out on some life-changing shit.
...Where my BJ’s at? If you get it, you get it (in more ways than one...get it?)
This is probably why I focus on entertainment media so much. Kim K. might be an annoying botoxed pretentious twat waffle with a sex tape, but she’s a lot more fun to look at than Mitch McConnell or Bernie Sanders. In terms of reality TV, at least I know Brody Jenner being a douche is just Brody Jenner being a douche that has no control over anything but his own penis (which based on current events and his gene pool is still highly questionable. DON'T @ ME.) I mean, it’s not like he’s ever going to hold public office, he’s just a reality TV star.
Well this is awkward. Moving on.
So, yeah. I love Bravo. Thankfully my friends now forgive me for talking about all things Bravo related. Usually, they would just tell me to shut up.
Not that I blame them. I mean when I call them talking about the fact that Jax was dating Stassi but slept with Kristen who was dating Tom but Tom is now dating Ariana who I think is still friends with Scheana who got married in a crop top wedding dress when she married Mike Shay but everything worked out because “ROB CAN HANG A TV IN UNDER 7 MINUTES” but then it didn’t work out and Tom married Katie who is friends with Stassi and Kristen who both slept with Jax who slept with the whole world but married Brittany in THAT wedding dress who hates James who is friends with Tom and Ariana who hooked up with Lala who is dating Randall who got threatened by 50 cent?
...I’d probably tell them to shut up too.
Although, I have the perfect dynamic with one of my best friends. She loves Ghost Adventures. I love Bravo. I watched her show, she watched mine.
It was a mutual understanding.
...But that completely backfired. Because now, I think there’s a ghost in my living room, and she just knows about the benefits of Botox.
Like I seriously thinks there’s a ghost. Although, this probably just means I now have a brain tumor and am hallucinating.
Anyways. Now people let me talk about Bravo and any other thing I’m rambling about. This was suspiciously timed after people found out about my diagnosis.
...Except my friend in NYC. I can always count on him to tell me to STFU when I’m being an annoying cunt. AKA This is why I love him.
Because it’s the truth. Ask anyone that knows me. I can 100% be an annoying cunt.
Oh, another upside to cancer. I can use the C word on my blog because fuck it, and I ain't talkin' about cancer. YOLO. Sorry mom.
Also, if it helps, he tells me he loves me more than he calls me said c word...and he makes the best playlists in the world.
But yeah. Everyone changes when they find out you could possibly die. How could they not? YOU change when you find out you could possibly die. Which is funny, because we all know that no one lives forever.
...Don’t feel awkward. Or try not to. Because talking about death makes people feel awkward.
Thinking about death makes ME feel awkward. I have stage 4 cancer. I’m 28. I don’t want to die. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. I don’t want this.
We all die. But this could kill me.
Saying things like this makes people uncomfortable. This is something I don’t see eye to eye on with many people. Granted, it doesn’t help that I’ve always been a cynic, and this whole cancer thing certainly has exacerbated that cynicism (but also made things much, much more beautiful. More on that at another time.)
But last time I checked, saying I am going to die isn’t going to kill me faster.
Don’t @ me with statistics about the power of positive thinking. I am aware. I am as positive as I can be and mark my words, I have NOT given up.
But yes. I have moments of depression. Sadness. Self pity. Pain.
Pain. Pain and more pain.
...But I don’t stay there. I don’t live there.
I live in my reality. MY reality. MY reality comprised of beautiful people and a beautiful life...darkly marked by the chance that I could leave that reality sooner than I would like.
I could die.
I am alive.
But I could die.
I’m 28 years old and this could kill me.
I talk on the phone with my friends (honestly, idk why I even call them friends at this point, they are family) daily. I watch TV. I read. I talk with my family.
Then comes the voice.
...What if I don’t beat this?
I go to dinner. I do laundry. I play with my animals.
...What if this kills me?
I wake up in the morning with hair falling out on my pillow.
...What will people say at my funeral? Who will come to my funeral?
I cry when I walk in the bathroom because there is a pile of hair on the counter.
...what will my parents do when I die? Will they will be okay?
I look at the hair on the counter again.
I don’t want it there. It shouldn’t be there. I should have gotten rid of it by now.
But somehow, I can’t bear to throw it away. It was the first clump to come out.
Yes. It’s just hair...but it’s MY hair. Hair that should be on MY HEAD.
But it’s there on the counter because I have cancer. FUCK CANCER.
I was always taught “life isn’t fair” growing up. This isn’t what I thought they were referring to.
THIS IS NOT FAIR.
So now, I talk about death and make people uncomfortable and awkward.
And I fight. And I fight hard. And I will continue to fight hard.
But...this could kill me.
So I talk about death.
My death. MY death.
And talking about MY death makes people unhappy. I acknowledge that.
At best, I kick cancer’s fucking ass and I’m alive and I survived and pray I don't get it again.
And at worst, I prepared myself for death. MY death.
So I talk about death.
...Life is beautiful. Life is hard. Death is inevitable. It’s just a matter of when.
Don’t take time for granted...because everybody lives. But everybody dies.
....except for Tupac. Shut up Lala.