Two simple ways to look at life: Happy happy happy dead. Worry worry worry dead.

‘You’re emancipated.’ M announced.

‘Cool, does that mean you’ll unshackle me and take the potato sack off my head?’ I replied.

He corrected his statement.

‘Sorry, I meant ‘emaciated’. You’re emaciated. Oh and you’ve got wrinkly old lady armpits too.’

I found these observations both complimentary and contemptuous.

Luckily for M my short term memory’s shot so I won’t recall such audacity tomorrow.

On another note, the first chemo wagon rolled into town 3 days earlier than planned. I’d postponed and procrastinated but eventually threw down arms and surrendered.

It’s been a grim experience.

Surgery – Walk in the park.

Radiation – Piece of cake.

Chemo – Goddamn fucking hideous.

And no intravenous fiddling-with for me. There’s only one toxic cocktail sanctioned to annihilate Bambi.

Firstly, don’t eat for 2 hours. Easy as no longer find joy in food.

Then dissolve foul pill on tongue and wait an hour.

Finish off with complex combo of chemical weapons.

Go to bed and trust you don’t spend the night puking shitting dying on bathroom floor.

Other distasteful side effects crop up.

Curious hallucinogenic dreams.

We were way back in time circa 1977. Sid Vicious was cleaning my kitchen whilst humming to God Save The Queen on the wireless.

M walked in and announced he’d sent a photo to Penthouse to be included on the Readers Wives page.

The image depicted me skiing off-piste in Zermatt, wearing nothing but a bobble hat and a pair of giant green knickers… ‘FUCK’ printed on the vajuju and ‘CANCER’ on the butt. Not altogether porn but unpleasant enough. Especially as in reality I struggle to get down a blue run.

Five days a month now of this stomach-churning fun and games for as long as my body (and mind) endures.

But as the saying goes…

Never say die.

Advertisements

‘You can’t arrest me, I’m a rock star’. (Sid Vicious)

What do you get when you put two super-sexy high-powered middle-aged Englishwomen, an 18-year-old thespian skinhead, a designer Australian Labradoodle with a questionable haircut and a bag of ‘special ’ gummy bears on a sofa together?

High as heck baby. 

One got jiggly, one got giggly, one got wiggly and one got licky.  Then they all got excessively munchy.

Luckily we’d pre-emptied this scenario and there was an extensive Japanese sushi banquet in the kitchen waiting to be inhaled.

I of course was an outsider looking in..  A spectator watching the spectacle unfold.  My current situation and cocktail of narcotics probably wouldn’t have been an agreeable mixer so I had to sit on the side lines of this little soiree.  

You might well think that Saturday nights in the house of a brain tumour person would be a tad tedious and tame..  But not around here honey.  It’s all about love and other drugs.

Having a goddamn mother-fucking brain tumour isn’t going to eliminate the good-time-party-girl in me.   

After all..  A little party never killed nobody and who knows what fucked up shit tomorrow might bring.