Oh, San Francisco, how I love thee. Let me count the ways; your delicious ethnic food at every corner, dirty bars in which stirs crazy fun times, the multitudes of parades and riots...the list never ends. I left my heart with you to root a lifetime ago and with you it has settled. Your bridges lay as open arms who welcome those from every walk of life and from every corner of the world. No matter who you are, which race you are, who you choose to love, or what you choose to wear, there is a place for you in San Francisco.
I was first introduced to the city by the bay at fifteen while taking a trip with my childhood friend, Geneva, and her family. While smashed in the family wagon, we crossed the Bay Bridge and I was instantaneously mesmerized by its beautiful fragility. The tall, sparkling buildings of the Financial District seemed like they were balancing on a wafer-sized island and the long rows of identical homes looked like winding, snake-like conglomerates that reached beyond the surrounding horizons. Upon entering the city, the energetic buzz of the streets and the diverse ethnicity that flows throughout lit a flame within me that has kept me coming back for years.
I must admit though...I had help with this love affair. The beautiful memories I have of San Francisco are always punctuated by the presence of one awesome guy. I met my best man-friend Megumi when I was a Senior in High School. I was eighteen and he was twenty-four. We met through an old work colleague and a mutual friend. One word to describe our energy together was instantaneous. It's been one of those special friendships where our chemistry was tumultuous and our conversations and underlying inside jokes totally alienated anyone else who wanted to hang out with us.
We have had the most amazing times just hanging out and doing otherwise mundane things together. Running errands like going to the grocery store or to the bank became a flagrant throw-down of sarcasm and bullshit, which is, of course, always fun. Games we played together while publicly observing others never became old. But, as time passed, the observation games that we developed were the most colorful and fun parts of our city escapades together. One of our favorite hangout habits was driving around the city (usually after an amazing meal of any Asian persuasion) for what seemed like hours on end. The habit began as a fun time-waster and became a never-ending game of gut-busting vagina jokes.
As you can imagine, the city has a wonderful array of very colorful houses that stretch as far as the eye can see. As Megumi and I would drive around the city streets, we would find the most amazing homes painted in different shades of purple, salmon, and peach. These homes are what became sought after...and deemed the "Vagina Pink Houses." Each house had a different tone to it, which meant a different "vagina." The homes with a brown undertone to the pink paint were known as "Latin Girl Vagina Pink." The ones with a slight purple tint were known as "Jamaican Jerk Vagina Pink" or "Black Girl Vagina Pink." My personal favorite were the homes that looked they had been doused in Pepto-Bismol or liquid Bazooka Gum...those gems were known as "Catholic Girl Vagina Pink" or "Barbie Vagina Pink." But, it didn't stop there; every shade of home was different which of course flared our hungry imaginations with visions of different colors of vaginas. Megumi, of course, had more personal experience in this arena since I only know one vagina and it's colors well. However, if the pink was not of obvious persuasion, we would usually come up with an agreement on which color goes with what region of vagina's origin. This game has dwindled off with the years but is still ongoing and is still too funny and hilarious to stop. It's one of those things that you either get and want to play, or you're grossed out and shoot a nasty lip curl/stink-eye. Either way, I totally understand.
Although my time in the wonderful city of San Francisco has not been recently spent, my memories are vivid and fantastically beautiful. Every moment I have spent there is fondly remembered and kept very close to my heart. Like a diamond ring, it sits upon me forever, glistening throughout; with each memory a different facet on the stone. Every memory unique; filled with dancing, singing, walking, watching, drinking/smoking, and general fun tomfoolery nonsense. My image of San Francisco can never change; the nostalgia lays upon me thick like the city fog. I will never forget my times within the city's bridges and next to my awesome friend, who is now nothing short of a brother to me. Here's to the good times, the present times, and the future times spent counting the endless rows of Vagina Pink Houses. Cheers!!!
Friday, October 14, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Poster Child
I am many things in this life; loving wife, designer extraordinaire, survivor, movie fiend, and Poster Child. Poster Child of what you may ask? I am the Poster Child for the wonderful splendor of Medical Marijuana/Cannabis. Of course this subject remains a bit taboo for many people, not knowing of how it saves millions of people from being ravaged by pain from horrible diseases and the treatments that they require. Everyone has heard about the amazing amounts of relief that this plant brings to people, but it remains something that some folks have learned how to despise because of stupid stoner stereotypes and ridiculous lingo learned during the lovely days of prohibition. Not to mention that it really doesn't mean anything even potentially helpful unless you yourself is who needs the relief. Medical Marijuana literally saved me from expiring from chemotherapy. Without it, I honestly don't believe that I would have survived the amount of poison being pumped through my veins.
As a child, I grew up in a home where my parents sometimes drank but never smoked cigarettes. Drugs were considered "bad" and my sister and I both attended D.A.R.E. classes in school to teach us how to say "no" to drugs...or as Nancy Reagan liked to say, "Hugs not Drugs." However, my parents were both beach hippies and every night they would retreat into the garage to listen to music and have "grown-up time." My father used to repair surfboards on his spare time so I would always be smelling different odors coming from the resins and junk he used to fix them. At night, the smell was different. It was a warm, musty, skunky smell that they told me was just another resin that dad was using to fix surfboards. It took quite awhile for me to figure this one out...but when I did, I was floored.
As a sophomore in high school, I went to my first party. My friend, Rachel, accompanied me as we made our way over to this huge hippie rager party complete with a bongo drum medley and stinky dread locks galore. Upon entering the drum circle, I started to smell that same, familiar smell that I smelled so many times before...in my garage at night. So, I turned to one of the guys sitting next to me and asked, "Who's fixing surfboards at this party?" Because it was such a random and silly question, being asked by a (sober) young girl, the guy laughed at me until he fell backwards off his stump. After re-balancing back onto his seat, his reply to me was "Uh, I dunno little girl. Why don't you go cheggitout?" My friend eventually told me that the smell was nothing more than some weed and of course I was embarrassed and forced to leave that hell of a shindig. Real Bummer, Dude.
Anyway, I went on with high school still very against doing drugs; no drinking, no smoking, and not much fun. D.A.R.E. did a very good job at turning me completely off to ever wanting to get near drugs let alone do them. Of course, my friends dabbled here and there with a few things...nothing serious. But, I stayed away and gave them the stink eye every time I would catch them coming back to class stoned.
During the last part of my junior year in high school, I was diagnosed with Stage 1 Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Cancer of the lymphatic tract. I immediately had surgery to remove the large mass in my neck and then started chemotherapy shortly thereafter. I became so violently ill from the poison that I was a regular in the E.R. and although I was sicker than I had ever been in my young life, I still refused to smoke marijuana. The drugs to aid the nausea never helped because I could never hold them down. Then, they would try to give me suppositories and just thinking of them would make me vomit. Chemotherapy was the most horrible violent sickness I have ever endured and I would never wish it upon even my worst enemy. However, I pulled through the chemotherapy and radiation and started my senior year as eager as ever.
During my senior year in high school, things began to change. I felt more free than I ever had before...a new lease on life at 18 years old. This was the time when I let a little loose and tried smoking (and drinking) for the first time. It was New Years Eve going into 1999 when I first tried it. I never went overboard; just a sip, a toke and a hell of a lot of laughing!!! No damage done and a lot of fun had. Just another experience to log in my long book of journeys.
Then the shit hit the fan. At 19, I was diagnosed again with 4th Stage Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. The cancer was seriously aggressive and had taken root in the outer tissues of my lungs, liver and kidneys. This part of my life is a bit cloudy, but for obvious reasons. Being in immense shock can make the details of something as horrible as this very hazy. I do remember telling the Stanford doctors to shove their statistics; I was young and "had way too many things to do." At the time, I was given less than a 20% chance of survival...and that was if the chemotherapy worked. Although my chances of kicking this were slim, and my prognosis was equally as horrifying, my mind kicked over into "Survival Mode" and I did anything and everything I could think of to aid me in this battle. I went to multiple church services and prayed with people around the world, I smudged my home (the Native American act of burning sage around the home to clear of negative energy) and meditated daily with my own mantra. Since I already knew how horrible chemotherapy was, I also decided to do anything I could to help myself from getting so violently ill. I knew about marijuana being used by cancer patients to ease sickness and my oncologists told me that if I could get some, to use it. My doctors actually told me that they were afraid to put anything in writing (about using medical marijuana) only because they didn't want to be scrutinized but that it would help ease many of my issues that would arise during chemotherapy. It didn't take a second thought; a glass smoking apparatus was purchased, along with some nice, sticky chronic.
The difference was amazing. During my second battle with cancer, I underwent two different types of chemotherapy at the same time. I used marijuana in very small amounts and never vomited from chemotherapy again. Although I was undergoing treatment in much higher amounts for a disease much more aggressive, my physical abilities were stabilized only because I was able to be comfortable. My comfort was achieved with one simple thing; medical marijuana. Unlike a manufactured medication/pill, the marijuana provided me instant relief with little side effects and no withdrawl. With any pill you're prescribed, there is always a side effect and usually withdrawl symptoms if taken for longer than a week. Not with the magical medical marijuana! Weighing the pros and cons of taking medications and smoking marijuana to ease pain symptoms was and continues to be astonishing to me. The obviousness of it all is in the facts; how many people die per year from manufactured medications versus people who die from smoking pot? This does not take a rocket scientist to figure out.
So, where does that leave me now? After undergoing a maintenance chemotherapy program for an additional two years after my second diagnosis, I put myself through college and got married to my awesome husband, Brian. I continue to be a proud survivor (11 years cancer free, baby!!!) and I still use medical marijuana to ease my physical pain. In 2009 I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia (a long-term pain condition) as a result to the amount of chemotherapy I endured. As much as this sucks, it is controllable for the most part and medical marijuana helps so much that it is known around my house as my "medicine."
Everyone has a right to their own opinions. I understand that most people out there won't have to face life-threatening and painful diseases in their lives and won't comprehend the importance of comfort during illness. Life in no way is comfortable all of the time but when pain affects quality of life, natural intervention is usually best. I will always choose a bowl before a pill. But, hey, who am I to judge? :-)
As a child, I grew up in a home where my parents sometimes drank but never smoked cigarettes. Drugs were considered "bad" and my sister and I both attended D.A.R.E. classes in school to teach us how to say "no" to drugs...or as Nancy Reagan liked to say, "Hugs not Drugs." However, my parents were both beach hippies and every night they would retreat into the garage to listen to music and have "grown-up time." My father used to repair surfboards on his spare time so I would always be smelling different odors coming from the resins and junk he used to fix them. At night, the smell was different. It was a warm, musty, skunky smell that they told me was just another resin that dad was using to fix surfboards. It took quite awhile for me to figure this one out...but when I did, I was floored.
As a sophomore in high school, I went to my first party. My friend, Rachel, accompanied me as we made our way over to this huge hippie rager party complete with a bongo drum medley and stinky dread locks galore. Upon entering the drum circle, I started to smell that same, familiar smell that I smelled so many times before...in my garage at night. So, I turned to one of the guys sitting next to me and asked, "Who's fixing surfboards at this party?" Because it was such a random and silly question, being asked by a (sober) young girl, the guy laughed at me until he fell backwards off his stump. After re-balancing back onto his seat, his reply to me was "Uh, I dunno little girl. Why don't you go cheggitout?" My friend eventually told me that the smell was nothing more than some weed and of course I was embarrassed and forced to leave that hell of a shindig. Real Bummer, Dude.
Anyway, I went on with high school still very against doing drugs; no drinking, no smoking, and not much fun. D.A.R.E. did a very good job at turning me completely off to ever wanting to get near drugs let alone do them. Of course, my friends dabbled here and there with a few things...nothing serious. But, I stayed away and gave them the stink eye every time I would catch them coming back to class stoned.
During the last part of my junior year in high school, I was diagnosed with Stage 1 Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Cancer of the lymphatic tract. I immediately had surgery to remove the large mass in my neck and then started chemotherapy shortly thereafter. I became so violently ill from the poison that I was a regular in the E.R. and although I was sicker than I had ever been in my young life, I still refused to smoke marijuana. The drugs to aid the nausea never helped because I could never hold them down. Then, they would try to give me suppositories and just thinking of them would make me vomit. Chemotherapy was the most horrible violent sickness I have ever endured and I would never wish it upon even my worst enemy. However, I pulled through the chemotherapy and radiation and started my senior year as eager as ever.
During my senior year in high school, things began to change. I felt more free than I ever had before...a new lease on life at 18 years old. This was the time when I let a little loose and tried smoking (and drinking) for the first time. It was New Years Eve going into 1999 when I first tried it. I never went overboard; just a sip, a toke and a hell of a lot of laughing!!! No damage done and a lot of fun had. Just another experience to log in my long book of journeys.
Then the shit hit the fan. At 19, I was diagnosed again with 4th Stage Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. The cancer was seriously aggressive and had taken root in the outer tissues of my lungs, liver and kidneys. This part of my life is a bit cloudy, but for obvious reasons. Being in immense shock can make the details of something as horrible as this very hazy. I do remember telling the Stanford doctors to shove their statistics; I was young and "had way too many things to do." At the time, I was given less than a 20% chance of survival...and that was if the chemotherapy worked. Although my chances of kicking this were slim, and my prognosis was equally as horrifying, my mind kicked over into "Survival Mode" and I did anything and everything I could think of to aid me in this battle. I went to multiple church services and prayed with people around the world, I smudged my home (the Native American act of burning sage around the home to clear of negative energy) and meditated daily with my own mantra. Since I already knew how horrible chemotherapy was, I also decided to do anything I could to help myself from getting so violently ill. I knew about marijuana being used by cancer patients to ease sickness and my oncologists told me that if I could get some, to use it. My doctors actually told me that they were afraid to put anything in writing (about using medical marijuana) only because they didn't want to be scrutinized but that it would help ease many of my issues that would arise during chemotherapy. It didn't take a second thought; a glass smoking apparatus was purchased, along with some nice, sticky chronic.
The difference was amazing. During my second battle with cancer, I underwent two different types of chemotherapy at the same time. I used marijuana in very small amounts and never vomited from chemotherapy again. Although I was undergoing treatment in much higher amounts for a disease much more aggressive, my physical abilities were stabilized only because I was able to be comfortable. My comfort was achieved with one simple thing; medical marijuana. Unlike a manufactured medication/pill, the marijuana provided me instant relief with little side effects and no withdrawl. With any pill you're prescribed, there is always a side effect and usually withdrawl symptoms if taken for longer than a week. Not with the magical medical marijuana! Weighing the pros and cons of taking medications and smoking marijuana to ease pain symptoms was and continues to be astonishing to me. The obviousness of it all is in the facts; how many people die per year from manufactured medications versus people who die from smoking pot? This does not take a rocket scientist to figure out.
So, where does that leave me now? After undergoing a maintenance chemotherapy program for an additional two years after my second diagnosis, I put myself through college and got married to my awesome husband, Brian. I continue to be a proud survivor (11 years cancer free, baby!!!) and I still use medical marijuana to ease my physical pain. In 2009 I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia (a long-term pain condition) as a result to the amount of chemotherapy I endured. As much as this sucks, it is controllable for the most part and medical marijuana helps so much that it is known around my house as my "medicine."
Everyone has a right to their own opinions. I understand that most people out there won't have to face life-threatening and painful diseases in their lives and won't comprehend the importance of comfort during illness. Life in no way is comfortable all of the time but when pain affects quality of life, natural intervention is usually best. I will always choose a bowl before a pill. But, hey, who am I to judge? :-)
Monday, September 26, 2011
Doctor, Oh Doctor.
So many doctors, so little time.
Since being diagnosed with cancer at the age of 17, I have seen so many different doctors that I lost count. Not exactly something that you want to brag about...especially before getting "Over the Hill" and all of my collagen giving way to gravity. Although, the majority of these doctors that I have seen over the years have given me strange looks over their bi-focals, shook their heads in disbelief and then served me up some good, hot, shitty news to boot. Not to mention all of those wonderful drugs that make you feel like a gelatinous mass of lukewarm jelly. To think that my fight for life is nothing but a shake of the head and a mark in the chart for many doctors, I've got something to divulge about them. Doctors may believe that they have studied their way into glorious position of reverence, but believe me when I say their personal lives take a major toll. In my personal experience, most doctors have a personal life as ravaged as a pig in a lion's den. Seriously brutal, but very true.
I must admit that I developed a very heavy attraction to doctors over the years of my cancer treatment. They were always there to pump me full of chemical toxic-death and, ultimately, "Save the Day." It's similar to anyone who has an attraction to someone in uniform -- I just preferred the white coat, salt-n-pepper hair, and big, sexy describing words to the military aficionado.
During a short Starbucks stop before work one day, I met a handsome gentleman wearing some very sexy pumas. (I do love a man in some sexy shoes...) After commenting on his shoes, he continually met me there, same time every morning. Eventually, we exchanged numbers and began a very short but very fun fling with each other. Turned out that the handsome gentleman was indeed a doctor, a Maxillofacial surgeon to be exact, who found just as much intrigue in me as I did in him. A Maxillofacial surgeon is the guy who deals with extracting wisdom teeth, TMJ issues, and implanting falsies where real teeth no longer remained.
After dating for a few weeks, I realized a few things that I found pretty weird. I know what you're thinking; old dude dating a college chick is gross enough...but, there was stranger things to discover. He never brushed his teeth; not after a meal, nor in the morning...GROSS. He's a mouth doctor for God's sake!! Also, he had an entire walk in closet dedicated to shear ling coats. His huge house was home to about 100 phalenopthsis orchids, which he had a personal orchid maintenance person to come and coddle them while he was away. His room looked like a prissy 16-year old brat's who had mommy's credit cards and a bad shopping addiction; covered throughout with shopping bags and issues of fashion magazines all splayed out. Needless to say, I was weirded out and our fling did not last long. Thank God I let go of him before his horrible Johnny Cash, Grecian-gilded stage. YUCK.
After that relationship ended, I ignored the red flags and made friends with another doctor. The difference here is that this doctor was my oncologist, from a few years before. This doctor was a wreck; divorces all over the place, alimony galore, two mid-life crisis hot rods, and an addiction to some nasty college skanks. Since we live in a college town that is saturated with a plethora of bleached-blonde stupids, he was never alone. He loved throwing "college parties" in his humongous pad and making sure that everyone knew that he was the cool old guy down the block who loved to get down. This poor man, as genius as he is with medicine, is totally ignorant when it comes to life. He was a total emotional wreck....the kind of wreck you slow down to stare at because it's horrifying and terrible. I had to eliminate myself from coming around that situation in defense of my sanity. Every time I saw a different slut drunk on his couch, I wanted to bitch slap him in his stupid wrinkles.
The last and final doctor that made me forever give up on my attraction was absolutely disgusting. Visiting this doctor was completely for health reasons and in no way personal. I was looking for a new primary care physician and had to go in for a physical. The short, fat, little old man claimed that it was strange for him to have me as a patient because he primarily worked with senior citizens. I explained to him that I have an extremely lengthy health history record that would surely match the girth of his other older patients and not to worry. He gave me an EKG (weird...and have never had one since) and a breast exam. He then called me later that evening on my personal cell phone and asked if I wanted to meet up with him. My husband was home at the time and heard the whole conversation so at least I have proof of how disgusting this asshole is. Dr. Creepy-ass old fucker, you are outed for how disgusting you are. I hope you die from some horrible painful venereal disease and rot in hell for what you did. I will forever and always openly discuss what you did and how disgusting you are.
As an ending to this fantastic rant, I must say that I still have respect for doctors. I respect the fact that they almost always surrender a chance at personal bliss in order to wear that white coat and be called 'doctor.' By giving up their chance at a happy personal life, they honor their well-earned title and try to save/better as many lives as they can. By saving people, they gain fulfillment. That remains beautiful to me, and forever will.
So, Thank you, Doctors! Thank you for giving up your sanity, your close relationships with others, and your chance of living a life of normalcy. Ultimately, Thank you for saving my life...twice!!
Since being diagnosed with cancer at the age of 17, I have seen so many different doctors that I lost count. Not exactly something that you want to brag about...especially before getting "Over the Hill" and all of my collagen giving way to gravity. Although, the majority of these doctors that I have seen over the years have given me strange looks over their bi-focals, shook their heads in disbelief and then served me up some good, hot, shitty news to boot. Not to mention all of those wonderful drugs that make you feel like a gelatinous mass of lukewarm jelly. To think that my fight for life is nothing but a shake of the head and a mark in the chart for many doctors, I've got something to divulge about them. Doctors may believe that they have studied their way into glorious position of reverence, but believe me when I say their personal lives take a major toll. In my personal experience, most doctors have a personal life as ravaged as a pig in a lion's den. Seriously brutal, but very true.
I must admit that I developed a very heavy attraction to doctors over the years of my cancer treatment. They were always there to pump me full of chemical toxic-death and, ultimately, "Save the Day." It's similar to anyone who has an attraction to someone in uniform -- I just preferred the white coat, salt-n-pepper hair, and big, sexy describing words to the military aficionado.
During a short Starbucks stop before work one day, I met a handsome gentleman wearing some very sexy pumas. (I do love a man in some sexy shoes...) After commenting on his shoes, he continually met me there, same time every morning. Eventually, we exchanged numbers and began a very short but very fun fling with each other. Turned out that the handsome gentleman was indeed a doctor, a Maxillofacial surgeon to be exact, who found just as much intrigue in me as I did in him. A Maxillofacial surgeon is the guy who deals with extracting wisdom teeth, TMJ issues, and implanting falsies where real teeth no longer remained.
After dating for a few weeks, I realized a few things that I found pretty weird. I know what you're thinking; old dude dating a college chick is gross enough...but, there was stranger things to discover. He never brushed his teeth; not after a meal, nor in the morning...GROSS. He's a mouth doctor for God's sake!! Also, he had an entire walk in closet dedicated to shear ling coats. His huge house was home to about 100 phalenopthsis orchids, which he had a personal orchid maintenance person to come and coddle them while he was away. His room looked like a prissy 16-year old brat's who had mommy's credit cards and a bad shopping addiction; covered throughout with shopping bags and issues of fashion magazines all splayed out. Needless to say, I was weirded out and our fling did not last long. Thank God I let go of him before his horrible Johnny Cash, Grecian-gilded stage. YUCK.
After that relationship ended, I ignored the red flags and made friends with another doctor. The difference here is that this doctor was my oncologist, from a few years before. This doctor was a wreck; divorces all over the place, alimony galore, two mid-life crisis hot rods, and an addiction to some nasty college skanks. Since we live in a college town that is saturated with a plethora of bleached-blonde stupids, he was never alone. He loved throwing "college parties" in his humongous pad and making sure that everyone knew that he was the cool old guy down the block who loved to get down. This poor man, as genius as he is with medicine, is totally ignorant when it comes to life. He was a total emotional wreck....the kind of wreck you slow down to stare at because it's horrifying and terrible. I had to eliminate myself from coming around that situation in defense of my sanity. Every time I saw a different slut drunk on his couch, I wanted to bitch slap him in his stupid wrinkles.
The last and final doctor that made me forever give up on my attraction was absolutely disgusting. Visiting this doctor was completely for health reasons and in no way personal. I was looking for a new primary care physician and had to go in for a physical. The short, fat, little old man claimed that it was strange for him to have me as a patient because he primarily worked with senior citizens. I explained to him that I have an extremely lengthy health history record that would surely match the girth of his other older patients and not to worry. He gave me an EKG (weird...and have never had one since) and a breast exam. He then called me later that evening on my personal cell phone and asked if I wanted to meet up with him. My husband was home at the time and heard the whole conversation so at least I have proof of how disgusting this asshole is. Dr. Creepy-ass old fucker, you are outed for how disgusting you are. I hope you die from some horrible painful venereal disease and rot in hell for what you did. I will forever and always openly discuss what you did and how disgusting you are.
As an ending to this fantastic rant, I must say that I still have respect for doctors. I respect the fact that they almost always surrender a chance at personal bliss in order to wear that white coat and be called 'doctor.' By giving up their chance at a happy personal life, they honor their well-earned title and try to save/better as many lives as they can. By saving people, they gain fulfillment. That remains beautiful to me, and forever will.
So, Thank you, Doctors! Thank you for giving up your sanity, your close relationships with others, and your chance of living a life of normalcy. Ultimately, Thank you for saving my life...twice!!
A Letter to an Old Friend
Friend of Yesteryear,
It's been quite some time since we spoke last, which has been somewhat of a hurdle to get used to. Of course, our last conversation was not one that I fondly remember. Throughout the years we have had our spats but this one was the one that finalized the friendship and sealed the deal. We have grown into two totally different people, with different opinions and opposite lives. However, it has been difficult since we have shared so much over the years and extricating you has been quite the process.
Remember how easy it was to be friends when we were young? Making friends as kids was as easy as hopscotch and was the only reason why I went to school besides the cute boys. There were no raring judgements between us, or opinions to argue. But, as we grew older, the differences between us became so obvious that hanging out was a chore.
As kids, we hung out everyday. I knew your phone number quicker than anyone's, including my own. Our names were said synonymous with each other and sleepovers were a weekly event. We shared everything; food, money, clothes, and boys. Although, most of the time you usually got sloppy seconds. Of course we had our spats...but nothing too serious. We got through hardships and break-ups together. Everything we did growing up was done together. Maybe that is why it has been such a hurdle to move on without wanting to call or talk to you. It's a habit that has forcibly been broken for the better good of both you and me.
Our differences really came out after high school ended and we moved in opposite directions of each other. I chose North, while you chose South. I chose college and work, you chose partying and conception. Extreme differences in how we chose to pursue life slowly but steadily broke our closely-knit friendship into a disgusting, messy, dusty rubble. Two people who grew up with so much in common that grew drastically apart.
This hurdle has been a great one for me. I do miss what we had but that does not take away from how great our friendship was and how many great times we spent together. I will always fondly remember the good times; running around scantily clad hoping the neighbor boys would see us, singing "SHOOP" (by Salt n' Pepa) all the way to school everyday for months, getting drunk/high for the first time, pretending to make out in front of guys to freak them out...amazing memories.
I hope life treats you well and that you find nothing but happiness, love, laughter and success. Although we have grown apart and probably will never speak again, I will forever be grateful for what we shared as silly little kids playing in the dirt together.
Sincerely, Tiny
It's been quite some time since we spoke last, which has been somewhat of a hurdle to get used to. Of course, our last conversation was not one that I fondly remember. Throughout the years we have had our spats but this one was the one that finalized the friendship and sealed the deal. We have grown into two totally different people, with different opinions and opposite lives. However, it has been difficult since we have shared so much over the years and extricating you has been quite the process.
Remember how easy it was to be friends when we were young? Making friends as kids was as easy as hopscotch and was the only reason why I went to school besides the cute boys. There were no raring judgements between us, or opinions to argue. But, as we grew older, the differences between us became so obvious that hanging out was a chore.
As kids, we hung out everyday. I knew your phone number quicker than anyone's, including my own. Our names were said synonymous with each other and sleepovers were a weekly event. We shared everything; food, money, clothes, and boys. Although, most of the time you usually got sloppy seconds. Of course we had our spats...but nothing too serious. We got through hardships and break-ups together. Everything we did growing up was done together. Maybe that is why it has been such a hurdle to move on without wanting to call or talk to you. It's a habit that has forcibly been broken for the better good of both you and me.
Our differences really came out after high school ended and we moved in opposite directions of each other. I chose North, while you chose South. I chose college and work, you chose partying and conception. Extreme differences in how we chose to pursue life slowly but steadily broke our closely-knit friendship into a disgusting, messy, dusty rubble. Two people who grew up with so much in common that grew drastically apart.
This hurdle has been a great one for me. I do miss what we had but that does not take away from how great our friendship was and how many great times we spent together. I will always fondly remember the good times; running around scantily clad hoping the neighbor boys would see us, singing "SHOOP" (by Salt n' Pepa) all the way to school everyday for months, getting drunk/high for the first time, pretending to make out in front of guys to freak them out...amazing memories.
I hope life treats you well and that you find nothing but happiness, love, laughter and success. Although we have grown apart and probably will never speak again, I will forever be grateful for what we shared as silly little kids playing in the dirt together.
Sincerely, Tiny
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Dear Uterus and Ovaries, We Need to Talk.
Dear Uterus and Ovaries,
I feel like it's due time that we have a long and in-depth conversation about what has been going on. This is necessary for us to go on with our seemingly happy existence together. We have never had a big fight and you have, up until this point, treated me quite well. It's a serious conversation, so please sit down and brace yourselves for some real in-depth, conversational fun.
Hubby and I have been trying to get pregnant for almost two years and wondering why there has not been any "scares", of any sort. We are both young so it's not like we are beating limp-dick syndrome with Cialis or using turkey basters or test tubes. Neither of us are lazy so this is a bit weird. I never knew there was anything wrong because every doctor who examined you told me that you were beautiful and perfect. Like a plush, velvet baby couch just waiting to be rested upon.
Unfortunately, having cancer did not help. Almost four and a half years of chemotherapy beat my ass flat to the pavement like a trucker over a snake in the road. I tried so hard to swallow the pain of it all...searing internal pain that would almost drop me to the ground multiple times a day. The pain of my body healing never seemed to effect you too much, Uterus and Ovaries. Or, so I thought.
Last month, Mr. Doctor-man told both Hubby and me that both of you, Ovaries, are stopping short of your years. Chemo has taken you away from me, along with my beautiful fantasies of pregnancy and natural childbirth. I am almost 31 and am in pre-menopause. Hot flashes have been no fun either. This news has been so hard for me to absorb. I am so pissed off at cancer. I am so sad because so much has been taken away because of cancer. Life is never fair or easy but damn, this is stupidly ridiculous to have to endure.
However, we remain strong and ready to fight! Hubby and I are not going to stop trying until the last egg is released and both of you, Ovaries, shrivel up to tiny raisinettes. I hope you both have enough to keep up with us! Please stay strong and remember that I love you and I truly want our beautiful relationship to continue with ease.
Sincerely, Your Owner, Christine
I feel like it's due time that we have a long and in-depth conversation about what has been going on. This is necessary for us to go on with our seemingly happy existence together. We have never had a big fight and you have, up until this point, treated me quite well. It's a serious conversation, so please sit down and brace yourselves for some real in-depth, conversational fun.
Hubby and I have been trying to get pregnant for almost two years and wondering why there has not been any "scares", of any sort. We are both young so it's not like we are beating limp-dick syndrome with Cialis or using turkey basters or test tubes. Neither of us are lazy so this is a bit weird. I never knew there was anything wrong because every doctor who examined you told me that you were beautiful and perfect. Like a plush, velvet baby couch just waiting to be rested upon.
Unfortunately, having cancer did not help. Almost four and a half years of chemotherapy beat my ass flat to the pavement like a trucker over a snake in the road. I tried so hard to swallow the pain of it all...searing internal pain that would almost drop me to the ground multiple times a day. The pain of my body healing never seemed to effect you too much, Uterus and Ovaries. Or, so I thought.
Last month, Mr. Doctor-man told both Hubby and me that both of you, Ovaries, are stopping short of your years. Chemo has taken you away from me, along with my beautiful fantasies of pregnancy and natural childbirth. I am almost 31 and am in pre-menopause. Hot flashes have been no fun either. This news has been so hard for me to absorb. I am so pissed off at cancer. I am so sad because so much has been taken away because of cancer. Life is never fair or easy but damn, this is stupidly ridiculous to have to endure.
However, we remain strong and ready to fight! Hubby and I are not going to stop trying until the last egg is released and both of you, Ovaries, shrivel up to tiny raisinettes. I hope you both have enough to keep up with us! Please stay strong and remember that I love you and I truly want our beautiful relationship to continue with ease.
Sincerely, Your Owner, Christine
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)