Curiousity like a nun or a negress or a girl with glasses

I'm 32 and my body is falling apart, through no fault of my own. I like to think I took pretty good care of it, so this must be genetics.

Stomach, shot to hell. I miss food. Fuck, I miss food. I hate feeling like puking or laying down much of the time. It's a severe quality of life issue, let me tell you. This is a constant fucking issue. And yet, the thing I'm most worried about now, is waking up after my surgery on Tuesday and not having my ovaries. Everyone I've talked to says their doctor said the same thing, "Well, I won't know until I'm in there." Yeah, that's fine, doc, but I'm telling you, unless the left one is BLACK AND SPITTING FIRE, LEAVE IT THERE. Give me the goddamned option, will ya? I know I'm not twenty-something with a husband, amazing career, and a house, but give me the fucking chance, will ya? I COULD NOT get him to guarantee he wouldn't touch the other ovary and that both makes me want to scream and cry. I'm terrified of losing them both. I know that's silly. I know there are plenty of babies to go around and I know that people go through worse things. But my goddamned stomach has made life difficult as of late and I really don't need to have to adjust to being infertile as well. I really don't. Give me that hope that I will find the right person and we will make another human being, as ill-advised in "this modern world" and selfish and absolutely terrifying it may seem, give me that option.

My sister had this done and they said the same thing to her. And because they found cancer, they took EVERYTHING out. I'm worried that's the genetic bit. I honestly haven't had any trouble with the left ovary, but you know, "I won't know until I get in there." And I'm 85-90% sure the left one is fine, but all I can think about is that other percentage, being unconscious and waking up sterile. Is it because it's an older male doctor? I repeatedly told him to leave me with an option, to leave the left one alone. And he tried to reassure me, tell me he's sure it's going to be fine, but when pressed he had to cover his ass with "I won't know until I get in there." All I could think about when driving home from the pre-operation meeting last Thursday was, "I'm alone, no boyfriend, no one to tell this to, and I'm going to wake up without the ability to experience that kind of love, all out of my control."

Fucking doctors. Doesn't work, take it out. Never trusted 'em.
I'm scared. I admit it. And I can't shake it. It's not going away.

Moving offers up little savory/unsavory tidbits. Tidbits, what a horrible word. It stays.
I found the box of you, no, fuck it, of the Ex (numero uno) tonight while looking to decimate my Pandora's box, literally, figuratively. I'll dismantle my stupid teenage bitterness and use it to house jewelry instead.

Found the video and was scared of it, scared of watching you beg me to come back. Haven't watched it since my young and flailing days in L.A. But instead, I found it sweet, endearing even. Despite the shit, the utter shit you put me through, you did love me like no one else and I gave you everything. I was shocked to hear you admit it, on tape, for posterity. You looked so fresh-faced, sad-faced, inspired by my "cemetery day". It makes me want to reach out to you, just to say, "hello, how are you doing?", but I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't be able to throw an "asshole" at the end of that sentence. You @ 24, fresh from losing, something you were never accustomed to, is not you @ 36. I know you have regressed, forgotten everything I tried to teach you, show you, about being a good person. I know it because I saw it in that coffee shop what...5? years ago and I saw the slow, snake-smile creep over your face, heard it in the phone call afterward suggesting we have sex, "for old times sake".

There will always be someone, someone who pushes the buttons, and you are mine. You exist now in a small, black bag and we should keep it that way. I simply felt the need to purge just a little bit more, in memoriam.

I'm sitting on the front porch and shit, it's a beautiful day. Ending now, sun setting as the tourists cross the street, take photos of the bright balconies to my left, across the street. Birds, fly across, sunlight setting their wings in golden x-ray. Something, somewhere, close, is going on, but I don't know what and I haven't the energy to find out.

Mid-week last week I found out our family dog died. Charlie. The kind of dog you call the Best Dog Ever. My Mother and Father and I picked him out from the shelter when he was a puppy. He was put to sleep last week at the age of thirteen. Lung cancer. It was quick, and unfortunately, I'm guessing, most likely, painful. I wasn't there. My Mom was. She had to give him his last walk because my Dad couldn't do it. Just couldn't. That dog was a good a friend to him as any human and more loyal and kind-hearted than most. I can't believe I won't see him again and just like those close to me wish they could be here, I wish I could be there, just to be there, just to be another body bearing the weight of a loved one lost.

The next night, on a second date with someone (yes, I spent the night. No, we didn't have sex.), I woke up at 3:30am with intense pain in my abdomen that ramped up quite suddenly. Within an hour, I was at the hospital, sweating, nauseated, and ready to pass out from the pain. It was similar to the ovarian cyst I had four months ago, but stronger, much stronger. They give you a chart with these simply-drawn faces to gauge your pain, one-ten. And it's funny, because most people look like a five all the time. I placed this at a clear 8. I'm not mentioning this to garner any kind of sympathy. In fact, I hate talking about it, haven't told a lot of people and only told my family because I did end up getting admitted to the hospital that night. I got out on Friday and my date, as unsure of the future of this as I may be, was there for most of the ordeal. I only got home from staying at his house a few hours ago. Maybe not a wise decision, since I am so unsure and he seems so sure, but sometimes a girl needs to be taken care of, and for me to allow that to happen takes a lot out of me. I'm exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, physically. I have a 5cm "fluid-filled sac" in my ovary that could decide to decrease, explode, or do a little dance once again and that kind of pisses me off. I wanted it out, but doctors being "logical", didn't want to risk general anesthetic for something that is "likely" to go away. So yeah, for anyone wondering, that may happen to read this that is, I'm fine and I'm sorry if I'm even worse at communicating now. I go back in Wednesday for a check-up. The worst part is, I have no guarantee this is not the New World Order for my body and me, if every month, in between that Special Happy Time, I'll get woken up, or forced to leave work to be taken to the Hospital. At least I have health insurance. Seriously. This is how people go bankrupt. This, is how.

There's talk of putting me on birth control to stem these little growths, which I'm none too happy about. Jill on b.c. is a paranoid Jill, no matter the dose, no matter the type. I really don't like it. But I do like morphine. Morphine was my damned friend and Vicodin is not. And neither is hospital food, or doctors who tell and don't listen. Here's an idea, try learning some compassion and not being so cocky. Try setting your goddamned coffee down at the nurse's station before you waltz into my room to tell me I might lose an ovary and then leave before I've had time to process it enough to ask some goddamned questions. Just a thought.

I'm annoyed. My body is betraying me in more ways than one and all I want is a nice iced coffee or a beer even though it's probably the worst thing I could have right now, due to the fact that for the past year or so my intestines have decided to mutiny as well.

And I realize there are so many people out there with much bigger problems, but I really just needed to get this out.

After getting knocked back twice in one week by men who were giving me clear (admittedly one more than the other) signals, I can honestly say I feel like the biggest sack of undesirable shit on the planet.

OkCupid, 1st email:


"Hi , my name is Jesse. I did read your profile and I do hope this letter does not bore to you or even make me look like an asshole. I looked in the mirror but I don't really know what one looks like so I didn't see what you're talking about. =P I didn't quite understand something, you said something about being around for 3 months because you had a calling, was that meaning 3 months here in New Orleans, or that's until you find out the reason for your calling? And curiously, what have you found that calling to be, that is if you've figured it out yet? That just gave me grounds for short potry. Maybe it was my heart crying out free falling tears down towards a dry hard surface evaporating them into transparent vapors of hopless dreams before even the slightest of touch from the earth! That was good, I'm gonna have to write that one down! That was deep. I like potry and I was giving you a sample of some free style. It's my art, and I assume, it's like your paintings to you. I can draw too but I've never tried to paint. I'm good with pencil, charcoal, and even pens. I do think you're interesting and even though we are a few years apart, age is but a number sometimes. I am over 25 though. I guess that gives me some brownie points. Everyone is a bit immature sometimes but I don't over do it. I do have ambitions or goals but as of now they are starting to become a living dream. I am a new actor and an agency called Hale Talent has just signed me! I'm so excited. I was a featured extra in a movie with Jim Carrey and Ewin McGreggor called, "We Love You Phillip Morris," and they play two guys in a gay relationship! I really like Jim Carrey but other than this movie being serious, he has done something he's never done. He's done some other serious roles in the past but mostly comedies, but in this one, him and Ewin McGreggor have a pretty explecit sex scene. I am not bothered by gay relationships but I just never saw Jim Carrey doing a part like that. I was also in a movie called "Midnight Bayou" that was originally a book written by Anne Rice. I was just a regular extra in a few background scenes and it's showing on Lifetime around next August. I am in the process of filming a movie with Brittney Murphey and Jason Taylor also airing on Lifetime. Matter of fact my last day shooting is Thursday. It's in a house off of Prytania in New Orleans. It's about 2 guys who one's parents kill the other guys mother while they were children. The two guys grow up best friends and either not knowing one's parents killed the other one's mother. The murdered woman is Brittney Murphey's grandmother in the movie and I'm a friend of the two guys. I'm in 6 scenes so far. I just realized that this is a really long first letter and I'm gong to let you go before I either bore you or you think I'm weird. I just like to talk and always have something to talk about. Well take care sweety and I hope I didn't take up any other better needed time. I hope to hear from you soon.
Sincerely,
XXXXX X."

Like potry that was.

asleep.
so tired.
so much to do.
but the sudden realization has me,
no, no, no, no, no,
not the l-word.
how can I deal with that?
how is that possible?

I knew there was something unseen driving me here, keeping me here. is it this? it feels like this. and there is nothing I can do about it and that is horrible.

stupid biology.
stupid chemistry.
stupid timing.

I apparently like to repeat myself and even use the same exact phrases. Ah well, let's just consider this new post "practice" for possible L.com bloggins.

I've moved to a very busy, music-heavy part of New Orleans (Frenchman & Chartres) and I now pay twice as much rent. But, the reasoning is that I have my own room/bathroom (sharing a house with three guys) and you only live once, right. I mean, you can step out on the porch and hear blues, jazz, bluegrass, rock, African drumming, you name it. And today, I tried getting used to this new area (previously I was in Mid-City) and it's difficult. Maybe I DO need a buffer, a little distance from the distractions. New Orleans already distracts me enough. I've never seen a city get in its own way so much before. But, it's an amazing place and I'll just have to acquire more focus and concentration.

And today it felt tense in the city. I saw more Obama posters, heard more heated conversations than previously.
I dread what will happen if Obama doesn't win...for many reasons.

Last night I helped out at KK Projects and that's a whole other story.
But, I got to meet Mel Chin (Uma Thurman was there too, but being an art nerd, I was way more excited about Chin). I introduced myself and he was very, very nice and approachable. I told him I was part of a group in KS doing his Fundred project and he knew it was Lawrence. He got my name (full name) and then sent over someone who's helping him with it so we could talk. I think I might be getting involved with the project down here. I hope.

At any rate, I'm on my second High Life and I think it might be time for dinner, yo.

Also, boys are still fucking stupid and I'm really tired of working on THEIR schedules.

Sooo, I bit the pavement yesterday right in front of the streetcar. Nevermind that it's embarrassing, but it fucking hurt. I simply misjudged the angle of my bike tires crossing the tracks at Lee Circle. The trolley driver yelled, asking if I was ok. I said yes and sheepishly wheeled my bike to the other side. My head didn't hit the pavement, but it jerked so hard that now I feel like I have whiplash, and I definitely have a large road rash on my forearm. It matches the other arm now (only more severe), since the other night, as I was watching The Science of Sleep in bed a roach crawled over my shoulder. I freaked out, thinking it was a spider, jumped up and promptly stumbled into the table.

So, yeah, I'm kind of amazed at how sore I am today. My neck, shoulders from hitting the ground and my legs and ass from biking so damn much.

Still, it's good to be here. One bike ride through the Quarter at sunset to meet a friend for beers at Molly's is enough to remind me of that.