‘You are what you eat.’ Are you fuck! When did I eat a brain tumour?

An old friend came to visit. When we were young I spent much time correcting her linguistics.

‘Are you feeling fat-e-guude?’ She enquired not long after arrival.

‘What the fuck’s fat-e-guude?’ I replied.

‘You know, fat-e-guude’ she said again.

‘Oh for fucks sake – you mean fatigued?’

The next day we cycled to the beach.

‘Wow, what a beautiful lake!’ she exclaimed after spotting a vast expanse of water.

Incredulously, I responded ‘Are you insane? That’s the goddamn fucking Atlantic Ocean.’

Later in the week M and I were chatting about his old uni alumni.

‘What’s an alumni?’ My friend enquired as she entered the room.

I glanced at M and then turned to my friend and replied

‘It’s what you call a support group for people with perverse sexual fetishes.’

‘Omg! Really? What type of fetishes?’ She squealed.

‘Mostly sexual.’ I pointed out again.

At this point M couldn’t bear my jesting and told my friend what an alumni really is. Killjoy!

She’s been a great distraction from Bambi’s fuckery and doesn’t complain when I roll out of bed at noon and crawl back in at sundown.

I love this whacky beautiful babe so much but sadly she’s now departed and I’m back on the evil vomituous chemo.

I fucking hate this poison and as each day passes I feel like Captain Blackbeard’s mutinous deckhand being forced to walk the plank.

After a while I find myself washed up on a desert island. That island being my bed. And while I’m castaway I have plenty of time to contemplate.

This afternoon I woke from a 6 hour nap after dreaming about the epitaph I’d like inscribed on my tombstone…

‘She died doing what she loved, swearing like a sailor.’

My fabulous friend posing for the centre-fold!

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At the stage where my mind thinks I’m 26, my humour thinks I’m 12… and my body thinks I’m dead.

Seems I get a couple of weeks between chemo sessions when my brain isn’t overloaded with fuckery so I can be normal (ish).

I don’t feel the need to take a daily 6 hour nap and I have enough energy to hold a conversation for more than 3 minutes without yawning.

I look for joy in food… Don’t find much, but it’s a better feeling than wanting to puke at the thought.

So due to this unexpected lift of chemo fog, I’ve become curiously enlightened and found the answer to some therapeutic alleviation.

It consists of 3 simple ingredients: love, positive energy and a sprinkling of fucks. That’s it.

Number 1: No one needs a plethora of friends in order to be happy. A handful of beautiful diamonds is worth so much more than a 1000 bitchface cunts.

Surround yourself with the people who know your true value and vice versa.

If you find yourself free-falling and your people are just watching you fall… Then they simply aren’t your people. Stick with the ones who will catch you and not run away squawking.

Courage is contagious after all.

Number 2: Try and find something positive in every situation.

For instance, yesterday I fell off my bicycle whilst crossing the railway tracks and my first thought afterwards was ‘Wow, thank fuck there wasn’t a train coming.’

Chemo’s gruesome – but on the upside it’s destroying Bambi’s bellend bastard babies and it’s getting me back into my super skinny jeans (If you rolled your eyes at that you’re just jealous).

Number 3: Apparently having an expansive vocabulary of swear words is a sign of intelligence and may be beneficial to the mind and body.

Swearing is also proven to help with pain as the benefits include increased circulation, elevated endorphins, and an overall sense of feeling motherfucking fantastic.

And as Humpty Dumpty said “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less.”

There you have it. Possibly Betty Swollocks but seems to be working for me.

A is for Asshole

Off we sped on the gurney down to the MRI dept. Once we got there I was briefly enlightened on the functions of a functional MRI. Essentially this test would determine whether I get to sleep during the op or be awake during the op. I’m sure you can guess my preference!

I was injected with a pretty blue dye and then placed into the machine, resembling an enormous lump of dough about to be baked. There was a TV screen on the ceiling of my oven and when images appeared I had to call out their names – house, cat, tree, etc. nothing too taxing. Then I had to call out a word beginning with each letter that appeared. This got me thinking about Bambi and the mess she’d got me into – so – understandbly I became a little rattled.

A – I called out “Asshole Bandit”

B – I called out “Bastard Bollocks”

M – I called out “Motherfucking Motherfucker”

W – I called out “Wankface Wanker”

H- I called out “Hippopotamus”….. I was so cross – I couldn’t think of anything rude beginning with an H. IS there anything rude beginning with an H?