blarggggg

I am writing frantically. I am writing with the agitated notion of having to step away from the keyboard at any moment to pee painful pink droplets of infected urine. What is wrong with me? Today is a day where I feel like everything about me is unraveling. This happens all to often...

I didn't get very far, nature calls, and today nature is a creepy stalker who dials my number, breaths heavily into the phone and just as I ask who's calling it hangs up. It's done this like 12312434 times in one long and relentless afternoon.

It's evening now and consequently Whole Foods profits $50 from my personal checking account in return for a magic powder potion from Vibrant Health called Mannose & Botanicals: U.T. Vibrance, Crisis Intervention Formula. Consumer report to follow. I also picked up an Echinacia & Golden Seal tincture cos my immune system has been destroying my ability to have guilt free access to sex and booze. This is such a tragedy. Why is my vagina so sensitive to everything? Oh well I guess I wasn't suppose to have sex prior to my two week recovery post cervical biopsy. Biopsy, shmyopsy. Obviously my ovulating hormones know what is best for my reproductive health. Or not.

I'm beginning to think something is terribly wrong with me, in a psycho spiritual physiological sense...if that's even a thing. Whatever the prognosis of my ill foreboding neurosis I'm putting all my chips on it not being Cancer. Oh yes, you heard right, without further ado let me introduce our guest topic of the night, the large, imposing elephant standing in the middle of the room Mr. C, formally known as Cervical Cancer. But why get all dramatic like that you ask? The biopsy was only a hyper precautionary procedure for a faint detection of abnormal cervical cell growth. Nothing to worry about says the professionals. Yet secretly, ever since a morbid encounter with a overly imaginative Ouija board seance in junior high, I've had this morbid obsession with dying of cancer, at the ripe age of thirty. I suppose this wasn't such an insubstantial imagined fate considering the long family legacy of cancer victims and survivors, including my father, aunts, cousins, grandparents and not to mention a great grandmother who died of cervical cancer.

Pregnant pause. Well, way to bring down a party, Jessica. Who invited this guy anyway?

Okay, relax friends, I really don't think I'm going to die of cancer next year, despite what the spirits running through my pubescent nimble fingers may have forewarned. First of all, I've got 15 months tops to fulfill this macabre of a fantasy which is not much time for someone who exercises daily, eats lots of veggies and rarely gets colds. Secondly, I'm just too damn busy for disease. I'm currently attending 3 colleges, holding onto a lovely stable job, living in a socially intense co-op, spending lots of time nurturing a beautiful relationship and juggling an impressive array of extra curricular adventures from bicycle touring to boogie boarding to power yoga to study groups and whatever else tickles my fancy. And trust me, my fancy is extremely ticklish. What I mean to say is I use every second of my precious life to the fullest so Mr. C please take your devilish demise and bother someone a little lazier (If you must). I guess I shouldn't imply that anyone is deserving of cancer. That's a bit cruel, even for my standards. Oh and the most important factor for refusing to concede to cancer: I'm just too damn poor. I haven't had health insurance for the majority of my twenties and I just don't think it's a viable way to waste a perfectly treatable malignancy on someone who'd have a hell of a time dealing with the financial burdens. No need to pick on someone who would have to chose between food and chemo or shelter and radiation. Gaaah, I'm just not into this at all. As much as obscure childhood dreams fuel adult realities I refuse to deal with it. Not now, not later. So there. In one week, when I get the big call back it better be benign. I'll just leave it at that.

And in other news; I was able to finish the rest of this blog without dancing in my pants. Small wonder.