Tuesday, February 28, 2012

I'm just blabbing. I've gotten so bad, I'm just gonna blab.

I don't think they'll ever be a good movie about cancer. Certainly not an action movie. Matt Damon will never play me. Well, Matt Damon would never play me because I don't look like Matt Damon. He's cute. I'm more like Ernest Borgnine. Women have never fell in love with my looks. I usually need a couple of dates and long talks and walks along some body of water. The ladies like talking next to water. Then, eventually when I've done quite a bit of work and have exhausted almost all my jokes, they say some weird physical attribute is cute. Like my back. Really. Some girl, after knowing her for a long time and talking to her everyday about all kinds of stuff, said I had a sexy back. I didn't have a sexy back. It was a white, pale, fatty, baggy, lard. But you women, you will talk yourself into anything. Even a fatty lard back.

The reason you can't ever make a world shit-kickin'-Titanic-Celine Dion-Sings-the-Soundtrack movie about cancer is because cancer is so damn slow. He is a creepy bastard that is so creepy he moves slower than you can even track. You wake up one day, you feel like crap. Then you feel like crappier. Then crappier. Suddenly, you just feel like that pocket of lard on my back. Just some lethargic, buzzed blob. While you're laying there, cancer is killing you. First your blood, then your lungs. You never suddenly feel a puncture and hop into a car, rushing to a emergency center. It just slowly moves, a centimeter a day. Until, pip. It's in. Meanwhile, as the blob, you develop a cough. You think it's a cold because if it were cancer, there would be this big pop followed by menacing music. And then Matt Damon would crash through your window and carry you to a hospital. Nope. Cancer is a slow bastard.

Someone once described the devil as not someone who is red with a pitchfork and fire in his nose. Instead, the devil would be someone you don't know but who slowly but surely lowers standards, kills things quietly. Wait. Someone didn't say that. I think it was in Broadcast News.
But that is cancer.

I'm supposed to be in complete remission now but I can't get over being sick. I am the blob right now. An Ernest Borgnine blob and I'm trying to get out of it. I can't even write well. The biggest bad news is because I've taken so many pops of oxy-anything, I've reached the Michael Jackson and Elvis level of drug use. Will I die on the toilet? I don't know. I like to poop. I like poop as much as the next guy. I think women every once in a while take a really great poop as well. But they have to quietly enjoy it. It would be great if a woman one day wrote on her Facebook wall, "I just took a great poop."

Maddie has pink eye. I think I might have pink eye. But being a blob, I have to unravel all my problems to see if a number of them is related to pink eye. Just not feeling good. I can't remember when I had a whole hour where I felt no pain, nausea or discomfort. It has to have been a couple of months ago. My biggest and best wish right now is to spend a whole day feeling normal. Even Ernest Borgnine normal.

I need to reach the summer. If I can stay in complete remission at that point, I can enjoy a day or two or three. In the summer, my treatment ends. Before that, I won't have any relief because my side effects are getting worse and the drugs are getting less effective. But just the summer. A couple days at the beach where everyone can see my fat blob belly, four or five scars on my neck, a port in my chest and then, tada! My back. Someone should film this because in the middle of all this ugliness, I will feel so happy. Okay, so sure, there will never be an action flick about cancer. But maybe a horror movie starring my midsection.


  1. I look forward to seeing you on the beach. Heck - I will even join you. As Reed would most certainly agree with, I'm probably the most pasty white skinned person on the face of the earth. The sun doesn't like me - so I usually stay away. As Reed will also vouch for, the last time I layed out on the sun for 30 minutes I went to bed as a lobster and woke up the next morning with the pillow stuck to my oozing blisters on my 2nd degree burned face and shoulders. Yes, it was a sight to see. But for the opportunity to hang with you, I'll take my chances with Mr. Sun once more; count me in to join you. We can get sunburned and talk politics. Fun, fun. I'll see you in July, Michael.

  2. You are blabbing - but that post is so old, you may be back on track now. I am contemplating posting on FB that I just took a great poop - I have taken many in my time, but I was slightly concerned that Aunt Dorothy may find it too much and keel over from a stroke. So, in an effort to save the great aunts...no poop post today. BTW - I totally dig back fat.

  3. Oh, and I think you and Andrew need to take a trip to south america for a peyote excursion. Our next bullet is SGN, then ancient indian acid. Sweet Jesus.