Sunday, August 29

Sexy Monday

My friend Palmio has a blog about all of his awesome upcoming comics and projects, as well as fun things he does and enjoys. Definitely check it out, especially on Mondays. Just not at work.

Sexy Monday is a weekly post that includes about 15 pictures of women. Nude, dressed, classy, not-so-classy, natural, fake, amateur, professional - whatever my thoughts are about a specific photo it is fun to just simply ask myself "What do I find sexy?"

In real life, sexy to me is confident, graceful, deep, mysterious, and effortless.

In fantasy life, it's a tied up redhead.

I'm not sure if I want to be her or the person who took the picture. Do I want to look LIKE that or do I want to look AT that? Decisions, decisions...

Saturday, August 28


Thanks for all of your support, my emotional bras. You are such great friends. Love!

The good news: my surgery went really well. The nurse said everything looked fine at my follow-up visit yesterday. And the girls still look pretty damn even! Hurrah!

The not so good news: it was a very stressful week. My mom and I didn't get along. I barely slept. I keep crying. My breast feels empty. I feel raw.

The past three days felt like six months. I thought I was going in for surgery Wednesday at 11am, but I ended up on standby. The nurse said she'd call in the morning. No one called all day. I had to call them at 10am, 2pm, and 4pm before they said to come to the office. The wait would have been fine if a) I wasn't with my extremely impatient mother, b) I wasn't nervous and freaked out, and c) I wasn't told to fast. By the time it was all over, I hadn't drank or eaten for twenty hours. Awesome.

Thursday I was too vicodined up to feel or care about anything. Yesterday I was an emotional wreck and couldn't center myself for my life. Today is the first day I am truly in recovery. Now I am able to heal and reflect. And hopefully sleep. So tired...

I am glad this is almost over. I can't wait to feel like myself again. Or my better all-natural self!!! WOOTY WOOT!

Tuesday, August 24


The past two weeks flew by. I'm glad Episode II of my Boob Saga will be over soon. Who knows what will happen next. Or is this Episode V and my story leading up to it are the prequels? Ugh. I hate prequels. A prequel is written knowing the end game, so it isn't organic story-telling. Same with memories. They are recreations of what happened in the past to fit what is happening now.

I ran into this problem yesterday. All of my anxiety and pain from the past three weeks (32 years?) came pouring out. I sat with it for a while, going deep within to feel what I wasn't capable of feeling as a teen. I saw Me then using the movie reel form of memory, but I realized I was recreating the scenes to fit who I am today. I decided to shut the projector off and feel the memory of my younger self rather than see her. It was hard at first, but I eventually got the hang of it and ended up discovering so much more about myself than I usually do through meditation. If this makes any sense to you, I highly recommend trying it.

As someone who loves to find the interconnectedness and reason behind life events, I have some ideas as to how my experience may have influenced who I am today:

1. I am not very affectionate. While this is mainly due to my upbringing, I have to acknowledge there was a time in my life I was scared to hug people because I didn't want them to feel my lopsidedness and/or stuffing. As silly as it sounds, I've only recently become an active hugger, probably because I have so many huggy friends. (Goddamn hippies.)

2. My "safe" weight is around 180 pounds. I weighed this much all through high school as a way to protect myself and my secret. I believe this is why whenever I stress out or feel unsafe, I immediately gain until I'm back in my "comfort" zone.

3. Control. I had no control over my body, nor did I have any control over the decisions made to correct my deformity. My parents chose to give me an implant. I feel like an ungrateful bitch saying this, but now I really wish they didn't.

Ugh. That was hard to admit. Believe me, I am VERY grateful they did anything at all. They could have easily said "Deal with it, Loppy." and I would have been a shut-in. It's just that I wonder if this is why I try to change so many things I can't control, such as workplace bullshit.

Conversely, I do not change the things I can. I believe this is due to self-worth and fear of making the wrong decisions. Who am I to live well? Why should I get to better myself when there are so many people who can't? What if I did have control over how my breasts were fixed and I chose wrong? Am I making the wrong choice now? Should I be immediately replacing my implant or reducing Righty? What happens if I'm lopsided again? Am I going to deal with stuffing my bra?

Deep down I still have issues with believing I'm worth making positive changes. As my brother said yesterday, "You are scared because you are making yourself proud for dealing with this." Man, he's good.

4. "Why me?" "It's not fair." I don't recall asking or saying these things in regards to my breasts as a kid, but I'm sure I felt them. If I didn't then, I do now. IT WASN'T FUCKING FAIR. I didn't deserve it!! Was I being punished? I was a good kid! What kind of sick twisted shithead pervert are you to do this to a child who lives in a society where these things matter? FUCK YOU FUCKBAG.

Maybe I'm putting way too much weight on this experience, but I can't help feel my whole fucking life would be fucking different if this didn't happen. Sure it's a bunch of maybes: maybe I'd have higher self-esteem, maybe I'd have more self-respect, maybe I would be happier. I'll never know now. DICK.

5. It turns out I never told my mom. She walked in on me in the bathroom. Knowing her she said "Jesuschristwhatthefuck!" I wonder how long I would have waited to tell her. I wonder if I would have told anyone. I wonder if this is why I've always felt so alone.

I guess that's it for now. It took me all day to write this. I'm beat. I look beat. I'm heading down to New Jersey in a few. I seriously can't wait for this shit to be over.

Sunday, August 22

Emerging Adulthood

I read an article in the NYTimes* called What Is It About 20-Somethings?

Psychologists and sociologists believe there may be a new developmental phase to explain the growing number of twenty-somethings who are delaying taking society's traditional path of adulthood to much later in life. This phase includes self-discovery, self-indulgence, dependence on parental support (for some), and the struggle to make life choices when there are unlimited options. They coined the phrase as "emerging adulthood."

I like this idea because it makes me feel like I'm not alone. I had no clue what I was doing in my twenties (check out my 2007 posts) and while I'm still not sure where I'm headed, I definitely feel like I'm emerging as something. I say "something" instead of "adult" because I've viewed adults as people who are married/partnered, have children, own a home, are financially secure, and/or don't hand wash underwear in the sink because they are too lazy to laundry.

I am none of those things which is why I have a hard time saying I am an adult. Society says I've been one since 18. But why? Should the definition of adult be based on age or accomplishments?

As a single 32 year old, I have the luxury to be a self-indulgent, self-involved, woman-child. I work and I pay my bills, but other than that I have no responsibilities. Does this make me less of a grown-up? I don't know...

This will be shocking (not really) that I liked this idea most:

"N.I.M.H. scientists also found a time lag between the growth of the limbic system, where emotions originate, and of the prefrontal cortex, which manages those emotions. The limbic system explodes during puberty, but the prefrontal cortex keeps maturing for another 10 years. Giedd said it is logical to suppose...that when the limbic system is fully active but the cortex is still being built, emotions might outweigh rationality."

Possible physiological reasons for my neuroses are comforting.

Any thoughts on the article? I spoke to my mom about it and she said we're all just a bunch of lazy, whiny fucks that won't shit or get off the pot. Okay, maybe she didn't say that, but I know that's what she was thinking.

*Look at me! I'm reading!

Manhatty Living

I always wanted to live in Manhattan when I was younger. I'm kind of over it at this point. If I did live there though I'd love to live in the West Village or in this blurple building on the Upper West Side.

That is all!

Friday, August 20

Follow that Word #3 - Slug

I was followed by another word yesterday. "Slug."

I wrote an email about my anger saying all I want to do is smash skulls and slug beers. I probably meant to write "chug," but "slug" felt right. A few hours later I was reading my horoscope and it said something about a "slugfest" in the cosmos. Then my friend Chips said that a punch to the vagina is a "cunt slug."

If I could marry a phrase, I would be Mrs. Thighs Cunt Slug.

So why "slug"?

slug [sluhg]
2. a nudibranch.
8. Slang . a person who is lazy or slow-moving; sluggard.

I have definitely been a slug all year. I didn't need to look up the meaning (I swear!), but I'm glad I did because nudibranch is my new favorite word. I wonder if there's a town called Nudi and their library is referred to as the Nudibranch.

I'm going to cunt slug you with my nudibranch. JOY!!

Anger changes everything.

Last night I wrote an angry post when I was drunk at 2am. I deleted it when I got to work this morning. Some of you may have caught it. The rest well, why aren't you checking my blog every moment of your life?!?!?

It was Mick. AGAIN. Sort of. To backtrack, we made out a few days after our nice chat. We made out A LOT. We hung out again the following week, but didn't hook up. I wanted to though and texted him later on saying so. He told me I shouldn't have left the bar. You'd think things were turning around, right?

Wrong. This Tuesday Facebook told me that Mick is in a relationship with that bar troll. I was LIVID. Crying, bat-shit crazy, beat the fuck out of someone (him) ENRAGED. And mean to myself. Oh so mean. Self-flagellatory (fa!).

I was so angry and I wouldn't snap out of it. I needed to be mad. I wanted to be mad. Now I'm done. Thanks to my buds who put up with me being a miserable hatehole all week. I owe you one.

Okay, he seriously JUST texted me to hang out. Granted it could have been a group text, but still. I know I'm over him because I'm not upset by this. It's actually kind of funny. Like is he seriously that retarded? We obviously can't be friends, so please stop contacting me. Enough.

While I had every right to be mad at Mick, my anger had nothing to do with him. Whenever I have really strong emotions towards or about someone I know I'm projecting. I was angry with me.

I'm angry that my fear of myself has stopped me from being my best self.

I thought I was afraid of change, but I'm not. I am very much aware that I'm changing. I'm changing everyday. The problem is I'm afraid of what I'm changing INTO. I don't know who she is and this scares me. I guess She's whoever I want Me to be. All I need to do is choose...

How did Mick help me come to this? Easy, he rejected me. It was a sad reminder that I reject myself everyday. Maybe this is another reason why I get hung up on guys that don't like me back. I'm not trying to make them change their minds about me, I'm trying to change my mind about myself.

Man, I'm on fire this year!

Wednesday, August 18


Apparently I'm supposed to learn a new word. Flagellation has followed me around for two days - twice in a book, once in a friend's status update. This happens, usually when I am being/acting/doing the new word without realizing it.

flag·el·la·tion   [flaj-uh-ley-shuhn]
1. the act or process of flagellating.
2. a masochistic or sadistic act in which the participants receive erotic stimulation from whipping or being whipped.

flag·el·late [flaj-uh-leyt]
1. to whip; scourge; flog; lash.

1. The act of severely criticizing oneself.
2. The act of punishing oneself.


Tuesday, August 17

Silly Secrets

Now that I've shared one of my biggest most personal secrets, I can't help wanting to unleash all of them out into the universe.

This is dumb.

But these are silly things about me that are okay to share. I think.

Whether I like reading a book without pictures or not, I will inevitably check to see how many pages it is and groan. Page count doesn't matter.

I change into lounging wear the minute I get home. Previously worn clothes are taken off and thrown on the floor right where I'm standing and stay there until I either have a visitor or move to a chair until I have to do laundry.

When someone visits I am highly motivated to clean the bathroom, take out the garbage, and wash the dishes. Until then, not so much.

I love band-aids. I don't need them as much now that I've finally stopped chewing my fingers. I sort of miss them.

Speaking of my fingers, I stare at my nails a lot now that they are pretty.

I've taken about 65 pictures of myself in the past month with either my camera or iPhoto so that I can finally change my damn online profile pictures. I looked horrible in all of them. If someone has a good picture of me with short hair, please send!

I miss Mondello's pizza near Company. That shit be good.

Most of my passwords have superhero names in them.

I can tell when someone on the train is reading my thoughts. I usually let them unless they give me the creeps.

I don't know the last time I changed my sheets.

My alarm goes off at 7:30am blaring a Spanish radio station. I snooze until 8am. My neighbors probably hate me. Sacapunta!

If I could make out with anyone famous, I have a hard time picking a guy. Christina Hendricks, Bettie Page, Scarlet Johansson (although she seems bitchy) - girls are no problem. Gosh, I'm even indecisive about guys in my fantasies.

I'm forgoing Dunkin Donuts iced coffee because the iced coffee at the local diner is $0.30 cheaper. It's not as good.

I cannot account for the missing $2 in my spending tracker and it's annoying the shit out of me.

I haven't bought new work clothes in almost two years. My professional wardrobe is the rattiest it's ever been. I'm too cheap to buy new outfits and I really just don't care at Minnow. Unfortunately, it shows.

Not only do I have zero recollection of conversations and events that occur when I'm drunk, I also have zero short-term sober memory. I guess this isn't really a secret, but I forgot that was the point of this post.

Mick is the only person I slept with this year. Again, not really a secret but worth mentioning as I can't remember (see above) the last time I had only one sexy partner in eight months. It was probably college with PJ. I like it.

I started writing Thighs as a teenager, thinking it would be a book about my life one day. It's funny to think the internet barely existed then, let alone blogs.

Right now I look how I always look when a'blogging - sweaty and pantsless with a big cheesy smile on my face. If it's a sad post I don't have a smile, but I still have a positive glow. I like this, too.


My lucky number is 37. It came about when playing the board game Life as a kid. Every time I'd choose 3 or 7 on the number strip, I'd become a tycoon and win.

I love when the number randomly pops up in my life. For example, I just checked my spending tracker to see how many Peppermint Patties I've eaten since my addiction started in April. As of today, 37. Awesome.

I also love when a ridiculously random image pops up on a Google search that has nothing to do with anything I am searching.

I thought I'd find an image of the Life number strip in case you don't know what I'm talking about. No such luck. Or actually, lots of luck because this was the first image to pop up instead:

If the price was $37, I woulda shit myself.

Monday, August 16

Mash Up

I feel like writing, but I don't feel like making sense. Or at least not making paragraphs. I really should be on Twitter because I am a segmented thinker. I don't even know what that means.

Giants/Jets pre-season game is on! I'm pretty psyched for football season, especially since the Mets blow. Just another August in Queens. Spags invited me to the game tonight. I'm bummed I didn't go, but since surgery is nine days away (I'm not counting) I want to take it easy. I'm also bailing on the Yankees game tomorrow night. I don't know what crowds have to do with my boobs, but I sort of want to avoid them. Maybe I'm feeling exposed. I'm feeling exposed.

Speaking of the bags, I haven't been in pain in a few days! Hurrah!

Was anyone else confused by the weather last night? It was cold and rainy. I couldn't understand it. I was wearing my summer uniform (t-shirt, capris, flip-flops) and actually made a pitstop home just so I could bundle up for the walk to get tacos. No joke, I came outside with socks, sneakers, jeans, a raincoat, and a scarf. I didn't actually use the scarf, but I had it to be safe. Ruth Clare in full effect.

Saturday I had an awesome pool-filled day with Stevie. I love playing pool. I do not love angry lesbian pool players who push you off your table halfway through a game. I'm a mouthy bitch and even I did not want to start with these beasts. They were scary.

Boy update - I am not single. I've never been single. I have had imaginary boyfriends my whole life.

Today I realized I need to think about a guy, ANY guy at all times because I'm afraid if I'm not thinking about one the universe will think I'm not trying. I have always been mentally and emotionally attached to some dude, whether they knew/liked it or not.

Case in point, I've spent the past six weeks ing-ing all over Mick for nothing. He didn't pick me! Hell, I didn't pick him! MOVE ON.

But that's my problem. I'm afraid to let go of Mick because there isn't anyone to move on to...

My mom always stops me when I get like this and says, "...right now." It's like the "in bed" game with fortune cookies.

Me: "I hate my job!"

Mom: "...right now."

Me: "I have so much debt!"

Mom: "...right now."

Me: "You're fucking annoying!"

Mom: "...right now."

She's right, though. I'm afraid to let go of Mick because there isn't anyone to move on to RIGHT NOW. Who knows? Maybe once I let go of stupids, someone better will come along sooner.

Huh. Letting go. Sure seems to be the theme for this year.

Thursday, August 12

Two Weeks!

It was moved to the 25th! Thank Shizza. September felt like years away...

I can handle two weeks. Or as said in Total Recall "twwwoooo weeeekkss."

(There were better quality videos, but I couldn't embed them.)

(I love this friggin movie.)

Wednesday, August 11

Three weeks?

The surgeon isn't available until September 3rd. I cried. They are going to try and get me in sooner if there's a cancellation. I sure hope so. Besides breathing and laying down it also hurts when I bend over (heh), walk too fast, and wear certain bras. I can't run, dance, carry anything too heavy, laugh too hard, and worst of all, drink. This probably has nothing to do with anything, but the thought of a beer makes me ill. Not sure why.

The good news? The procedure itself should only take about twenty minutes. The pain I'm in is very common and nothing to be worried about. And the best news of all for any young girls out there with this issue, it is also very common for the breast to eventually grow on its own. As Bakes put it, my boob ate my implant.

So the wait continues. Fingers crossed I can get this shit over with sooner!!

Enough boob talk...go to Governor's Island! Saturday night the girls and I went there to see the band Local Natives. It was the perfect day for a quick ferry ride, a stroll around the old Army/Coast Guard station, and lounging at Water Taxi Beach for the show. I know nothing about new music, so randomly tagging along helps me broaden my horizons. Check 'em out:

I've replaced drinking with eating. Friday I had sushi, Saturday I ate a chicken wrap, falafel, and half a hamburger. Sunday, aw crap, I ate ANOTHER burger at Sweet Afton (so good!) and then tacos at Tacos Mexico (amazeballs!). I've been wanting to check out the taco place for a while now and I'm so glad I did. Very fresh, not greasy, and guacamole you want to smear all over your body, then eat.

Today my mom took me to T.G.I. Friday's. The sandwich was good, but I am so over chain restaurants. The host referred to us as "guys" about 17 times in 3 minutes: "Hey guys, how you guys doing today?" "You can sit here guys." "Here are your menus, guys." "Enjoy guys!" Now I call everyone guys, but really? I'm with my mom. Know your audience, bub.

Oh right, I don't think I mentioned I'm going to the same plastic surgery center in NJ as I did as a kid. My original doctor retired, so I'm seeing his successor. I could have found a doctor in NY, but the last thing I want to do right now is shop for a new surgeon. Also, I'd like to be with my parents. I'm regressing. So be it.

That's pretty much all I got. I feel the need to keep my calendar wide open should the nurse be able to squeeze me in sooner. That sounds dirty.

I'm sure I'll get bored with myself, but until then I'm feeling a bit hermity. I read all of the Scott Pilgrims this week to catch up for the movie and now I'm starting on a book with no pictures. I might actually finish this one. We shall see.

Okay, truthfully this is what's going on in my head right now: boobsboobsboobsboobsboobsboobsboobsboobsboobsboobsboobs

It's a nice change of pace from:

I am such a dude.

Tuesday, August 10

First Post-Boob Post Post

I wasn't going to write until after I see the surgeon tomorrow. The waiting game sucks, but sometimes it's nice to sit with the unknown. I'm seldom able to do this, but right now I can. And I have you to thank.

From the absolute bottom of my heart, thank you for all of the positive and supportive feedback you've given me since I shared my story. It was The Post, the one I knew I'd write one day but was too afraid to publish. I felt so alone the first time around that to have you there for me now is truly helping me let go. Thank you for making me feel normal, strong, and most importantly, loved. I love you, too.

It's been a strange week. I'm emotionally vomiting everywhere. This psychic tapeworm has been eating up my insides for almost twenty years now. Openly talking about it is the healing purge.

I realize now the secret became bigger than what I was hiding. Maybe I needed to keep it hush-hush in the beginning to survive my teen years, but I definitely didn't need to hold onto it for this long. I don't even recall telling my therapist the whole story. Weird, right?

Of course now that I am talking about it I have some ideas as to how this experience has affected me through the years. I'm still sorting things out, but here's an obvious one:

This is probably why I like things to be symmetrical.

Well, duh.

Friday, August 6


Well this is it, the mother of all posts. My boob story.

When I was 12 years old I noticed that my right breast was a little bigger than my left one. I don't really remember what my initial thoughts were about this, probably because I didn't know what to think. The only thing I knew about breasts was that I liked seeing them on TV. I am a straight female Boob Man.

Unfortunately my right breast kept on growing. By the time I was 15 Lefty was still an A and Righty was a DD.

And there you have it. My secret.

Only a handful of people know this about me. I don't really like to go back there. In fact I don't really remember much. This is my attempt to try.

I remember I had to get up early to stuff my bra. In the beginning it was pretty easy to hide, but as Righty grew I had a rough time filling out Lefty. I usually wore around six or seven layers at once. The routine get-up was a regular bra with a shoulder pad and tissues, then two sports bras and a tight tank top. Sometimes I'd stuff tissues or paper towels in between the sports bras to round out the shape. I guess I didn't need all of that, but the last thing I wanted was for the tissues to pop out. Or, you know, anyone to notice how lopsided I was. I'm sure they didn't notice anything except the huge uniboob hiding under oversized striped Pacific Sunwear t-shirts and baggy Champion sweatshirts. It was my daily armor for a good two years.

I don't exactly remember when I told my mom. I'm guessing it was around my 15th birthday because I had my surgery that summer. She's not one to dick around.

My parents really did right by me. I am so grateful they immediately took action. My mom found an amazing doctor who wasn't looking to just throw an implant in Lefty and call it a day. He said my breasts were deformed, which sounds harsh but it was the truth. Righty was huge and saggy, not the perky breast a teenage girl should have (can I get arrested for writing that?). Lefty had this weird tubular shape. Not a fan. I tended to ignore her most of the time. She was the runt.

The doctor recommended I have reconstructive surgery first. In August 1993 I went under the knife for 4.5 hours so that he could reshape both breasts and reduce Righty. It was pretty hardcore. I remember waking up during the procedure and seeing things I did not need to see. Yikes!

The following February he put an implant into Lefty. I was finally even.

A few years later I was in the car listening to Howard Stern. Robin just had a breast reduction and was saying how the scars are pretty bad. Someone said she has frankenboobs. I nearly pissed myself. It was the best way to describe how mine looked. I decided it had to be the title of my book should I ever write about my experience. I know it's strange to consider publishing a book about something I rarely talk about, but I felt one day I'd share. A couple of years ago I read the comic Boobage by Monica Gallagher. I cried the whole time. While her story isn't the same, it confirmed I wanted to write mine soon. In fact, I emailed her that day to ask if she'd be interested in collaborating together. It obviously didn't work out, but I am so happy I read her book. She inspired me. I probably wouldn't be writing this now if it wasn't for her.

Anyways, I have frankenboobs. I'm so pale that the scars are still very noticeable, but I don't mind. Guys don't either. They just want to get laid.

Oh, guys. Hiding this in middle school and high school did not help my dating self-esteem. Self-esteem in general, but we'll get into that later. I was a big tomboy, so it's not like boys were asking me out all of the time but man, did I shut down. I couldn't take the chance of anyone seeing my lopsided breasts and eventually my scars. It was much safer if I didn't date at all. By college I felt more secure about hooking up (obviously, slut) and just told guys I had a breast reduction and left it at that. Again they didn't care. Most seemed to get turned on by the idea my breasts were even bigger than they are today. They always said it the same way, too. Pause, thoughts, then a soft, "So big were they?"

Needless to say liking boys back then was rough. Swimming sucked. So did trying on clothes in front of my friends, changing in the locker room, running bases in softball. My boobs were always on my mind, even when they weren't.

I really don't know how I dealt with this. My mom said I was so strong. I guess I had to be. My parents helped me fix my breasts, but they didn't know how to help fix me. I was all alone. I couldn't talk to my mom because she was such a basket-case and I was too embarrassed to talk to my dad. Any time I did talk to them about it they tried to console me by saying, "It's not that big of a deal. At least you didn't lose an arm or a leg." Really? THAT'S your answer? I understand they were only trying to put it in perspective, but I needed help coping. Making me feel like I couldn't be upset made it worse. I may not have been sick or dying, but it was still a heavy burden for me to deal with during my formative years. No wonder I have trouble trusting myself, my emotions, and people close to me.

The physical scars are nothing. I have no idea how deep the emotional scars run. I had low self-esteem before I even got my boobs, so this experience just made it plummet. I'm a good actress, though. I had a lot of friends, I had a lot of fun, but I suffered alone. I guess I still do. It wasn't until I started writing Thighs that I openly talked about my depression. The interesting part is I don't think I became depressed until AFTER my breasts were even. Sort of like post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD. P-TITS-D.

Once they were fixed my parents assumed I'd be the happiest kid on earth. I wasn't. All of a sudden my problem was gone, but the pain was still there. That's when I started drinking and doing drugs. I needed to feel something else.

Gosh it feels so good to write about this. As gay as it sounds, Thighs saves me. I feel like writing things out into the interverse helps me heal.

So why tell this story now? The pain in my breast this week is the implant. It popped. They only have a shelf-life of ten years and I got sixteen out of this one. I should have gone in for check ups of course, but I never did. I just wanted to forget this ever happened.

I'm not exactly sure when it burst. The first time I felt discomfort was with Tat. I usually sleep on my back and right side, so it wasn't until I consistently shared a bed with someone that I noticed it bothered me to sleep on my left. The pain wasn't too bad, I'd just have to flip over after a while. That's what she said.

The weirdest part about this is Lefty hasn't shrunk. After the surgery my boobs were a full B. The size of both breasts always fluctuates with my weight, so now I'm a D and have been for a while. I did think it was strange Lefty even grew at all, but I didn't give it too much thought. When the nurse looked at my mammogram yesterday she said, "Um you don't have an implant anymore." I freaked. Like good freaked. It's crazy!! My whole boob is natural. As my mom jokingly said, I'm a real girl now.

I'm still in a lot of physical pain, though. I just want to get this fucking thing out. The implant is on top of my breast and is annoying the shit out of me. It hurts to breathe, hurts to laugh, hurts to hurt. I don't think I want another implant. If Lefty does shrink to the point where I'm grossly lopsided again, I might just reduce Righty. I love being big breasted, but it ain't worth the upkeep. I think. I don't know. I'm going to the surgeon on Wednesday to find out my options.

Now that this is out there in the world I'll probably write more about it. I'm still pretty in shock about everything. In shock from the pain, the news, and going back to an upsetting time in my life. I'm emotionally exhausted.

I figure if you're reading this you're either a good friend or a complete stranger. Both are fine. I'm telling most people that I have a benign mass that needs to be removed. I don't want to get into all the stuff you just read. I will with you though, should you have any questions. Hell, I'll probably need to talk about it. It's been a long time coming. And it's okay if you want to stare at them. I'll even take my shirt off if you want.

Thanks for reading.

Tuesday, August 3

It's about that time!

Every six months or so I have some exciting new health issue to deal with. Fucking clockwork.

Okay, so maaaayyybe I've had discomfort in my left breast for the past oh, I don't know, eight months. It bothers me if I lay on my left side. What have I done about it? Easy - not slept on my left side.

For some reason it was killing me Sunday night. I tossed and turned and just couldn't get comfortable. It happened last night, too but now the pain has moved from my boob to my chest and entire upper back. Possible reasons:

1. Funbag problems. Well I've had enough of those. One day I'll share that story. I've wasted enough time massaging them myself, so mammogram and ultrasound on Thursday.

2. Pulled a muscle. The only physical activity I've done in the past week is drink, so unless beers are getting heavier I don't see how I could have pulled something. Maybe it's one of those "old person" injuries that occur from doing something routine. I did carry a bag of laundry on Saturday. I always yank my window open. I recall doing some form of the chicken dance for quite a while at Juniper's party. I do not recall much else after.

3. Nutrition. I went to the doctor today to make sure I didn't have walking pneumonia (it hurts to breathe, you never know). In the waiting room this 300 pound woman was complaining that she didn't know what was wrong with her stomach. Here's a bitchy idea: You're 300 pounds!! (So mean!) As soon as the thought popped into my mind I realized the same thing for myself. I drink too much and I'm 25 pounds overweight. Of course shit's gonna break from time to time.

4. My bad posture. It seems to be getting worse. Must remedy.

5. My all time favorite...stress. Oh psycho-somatic illnesses, what would my life be like without you? I'll be pretty fucking pissed if this is the reason again, which obviously isn't helping my anxiety levels. It is annoying, though. I finally feel like I'm getting my emotional and mental stress in check! I meditate a lot more. I write in my journal more. I'm breaking things down until I get to the root of the problem. I'm detaching myself from work. I'm enjoying my personal time. If this is stress-related I'm really not sure what more I can do about it. Running seemed to help, but the last thing my boob and back need is a jog.

Man, am I in pain right now. It feels like someone stabbed a rotating stake through my heart. Oh for Christ's sake...if this is me manifesting my emotional heartache of late until something tangible I swear to Shizza I'm going to punch myself in the face.

I'm really dramatic when I don't feel well.


I'm always dramatic.

Sunday, August 1

Scratch that...2010 Guy Success!

Now that I've sobered up I realized this isn't a guy fail year at all. In fact, I'm actually feeling a bit successful. I've loved, I've lost, and I'm lifing. There's no failure in that! I'm getting closer and closer to my blurple balloon.

Ed Note: Yes, I should have written "living" instead of "life-ing" because it's not a word, but I feel that lifing is a more exciting version of living. Plus this is my blog and I will make up words whenever I damn well propensiate.

Propensiate is another word I manujaggered.

Manujaggered is a dollom of brotysmal porabutions.

I will now shucumble myself into a tirabble.

Good day my lahoyens!

2010 Guy Fail


Tat has a girlfriend.

Mick chose the bar girl.

And while looking at pictures of Grape's kid, Facebook just informed me that Banana is still with Orange.

I sure as fuck hope I'm not doomed to be single and/or the other woman for the rest of eternity.

It's only August. Here's hoping I can turn this guy fail of a year around...