Cruella Theory

waxing nonsensical

2011-05-08T22:54:00.000-07:00

I've been in hiding. A rabbit who digs a hole only to emerge among foxes. I have emails in the hundreds I've read and considered answering, texts sitting hopelessly, all demanding explanation.
'Where are you?'
'What are you doing?'
I feel trapped by a need to explain and the explanation itself. Yet, instead of addressing basic human interaction, I resume focus on churning out words that require constant replacement and hoping someone will simply approach me without having to ask.

I've been muted. In a most cruel, Pavlovian way my throat's sharp rejection of utterance forces an opt for silence over commentary. Restraint over laughter. Although the torturous swallowing has come and gone with each cycle, I remain conditioned. Instead of projecting, I whisper. I don't know if this will subside. The recommended baking soda cure-all only provides temporary relief. I'd rather not chance it.

I'm bald and just nearing the point of washing my wig to make myself presentable to the public. or I could just stay hidden.

I'm in my own little bubble concentrated around my room and the hours most mortals take rest. I'm nocturnal now.

Finals have provided a new impetus for hibernation and a reason to disregard hygiene. My android-like attachment (Central venous catheter), with its ever-pressing neediness and demands to be covered with skin ripping plastic every shower made cleansing seem much less necessary. Why change pillowcases I'm only going to cough into again the next night?

My room is a collection of dust bunnies. The ones that hop from one surface to the next, fearing Lysol. Apparently ceiling fans are meant to interrupt their stranglehold on my living space - I discovered this magic a bit late into my allergy attack.

I'm not sure if this is melodramatic enough.

Observation

2011-04-11T00:59:00.000-07:00

His eyes look slow, sluggish, and unfocused. A glimpse would capture his visage dewy; upon closer reflection it is a sheen of perspiration from sedentary activity. His blazer appears to conform to his rounded shoulders like a shrunken cardigan.

He will grow into his blazer, and his bad haircut.

A protuberance escapes the vertical lines of an intentional shirt choice.

His complexion would have once suggested lively engagement in the outdoors, now merely reddish from losing a race up the stairs to a Domino’s box.

His teeth remain as perfectly white as memory would allow against a once tender, now merely swollen, chapped mouth.

Drink Up, Drink Down

2011-04-11T00:17:00.000-07:00

I just threw up.

I’m sitting on a train to my first dose of my allegedly last round of chemo. I’ve been swimming in alcohol all week in preparation for the upcoming eight weeks of sobriety, which will include the notoriously blackout-able events of Fling and Hey Day. It's been done before by better men - I just hope I have some funny bones left to play.

The feelings of nausea and fatigue tinged with just the slightest drop of hopelessness associated with chemo tended to make me question the logic behind the hangover-inducing round at the bar. I made a note to myself – why on earth would I subject myself to this willingly? This is miserable. And stupid.

You start to appreciate clear-headedness when you are forced to drug yourself up with fog.

And yet here I find myself, mouth dry and throat irritated by my body’s literal rejection of my stupidity and feeble attempt to act like any other kid. The breaks in between chemo have been particularly notable for the opportunities to behave recklessly, yet they are supposed to be the times when I reflect on the beauty of being without inescapable discomfort, yet when given the opportunity to bathe myself in the toxic tastes of an (allegedly) happy hour, I jump at the chance to put myself through hell.

Absence may have made the heart grow fonder, but the anticipation greatly outweighed the activity (that’s what she said…)

Port

2011-03-09T12:28:00.000-08:00

'How old are you?'

she demanded, advancing like a cheetah on an antelope.
I guess my submissive body positioning, makeupless face, and tears at a standard procedure failed to project the maturity I thought I possessed, few years post-adolescent.

"21"
I revealed, embarrassed by the combination of my fetal position and her tone of voice. I would have liked nothing more than to suggest an age for which it would be appropriate to burst into tears with needles and have my parents accompany me on hospital stays.

She, of the warrior-survivor sort, resumed with her interrogative tactics, interspersed with bits of "I've had worse" and "only idiots like you don't have ports".

She took my age as a desperate sign that I needed to be saved (as I should know better) and less than subtly conveyed this in her sales pitch. I would soon "come to terms with it" and "realize how much better off I'd be".

I wanted nothing more than for her to shut up and let me wallow in my melodrama over a bad vein.

She described her experience with cancer and ports confidently, with the strength I had so often feigned when discussing my own situation with those I felt would not be able to handle it otherwise. She discussed the port with the condescending tone reminiscent of the girls in elementary school who were the first to get burberry purses for christmas. I was slightly offended.

My mother's vapid alarm at 'yet another scar' did not help my case.

She further shared that she had a tattoo over her scar, to further the differentiation between us. She, wise and courageous, exhibited comfort with all things sharp and frightening. How special.

But, as I mentally defended, its not the needles that cause the hysterics so much anymore. No, with weekly sticks, pricks, and jabs I've have plenty of opportunities to display my ease and calm. My deteriorating veins, however, are another story. The tattoo'd woman above commented on how 'small' they are. Once upon they were referred to as "juicy"(I'm sure that was meant as a compliment..?). I'm not sure how I feel knowing that the pathways for my lifeblood have expirations. Or that I'm slowly damaging the infrastructure of my circulatory system with every injection. every hit or miss attempt to wrestle a vein into submission with a catheter. But please, put the disdain on drip and let it settle in like the rest of this poison. I'm used to it.

Had I been in a less fragile state, I might have lashed out at her. As many do when revisiting a situation in their minds, I reconstructed the flow of conversation with a few choice quotes.

Namely, I would combat the ever-present one-up-ing that tends to come up in the cancer conversations. For one reason or another, people feel compelled to relay how much worse off they are, as if to suggest I lost a contest for not being terminal and should just fucking get over it. You have hodgkins? I have non hodgkins. You had two bone marrow biopsies? I had 12.

I would probably also call her out, perhaps incorrectly, for casting herself as this tough, devil-may-care cancer survivor with a tattoo over the scar of a procedure I don't want to (and shouldn't have to) get. Or maybe suggesting that, although she's no longer the one in the hospital bed, she could try to show just the slightest amount of sensitivity to someone whose shoes she professes to have been in not so long ago. I imagine she felt very pleased with herself, as she said she "would want someone to tell her" - the sort of phrase one uses when telling your exboyfriend's new girlfriend he's a cheater. I feel it to be far less appropriate in this situation. Though that could be applied to her preaching and patronizing in general.

it reminds me of the stereotypical pledge-fraternity relationship. You don't like getting lit on fire? Ya, well, I went through it so you should feel privileged for the opportunity.

Though, unlike a typical semester, there's no hell week (with reward of initiation) in sight.

A Final (De)grade

2011-01-28T01:28:00.000-08:00

The University of Pennsylvania has failed me.

Not in the academic sense, but in the other academic sense.

I'll clarify: I desire to take the maximum recommended courses as determined by my oncologist, and Penn does not wish to accommodate me. My case was petitioned and shut down, and with it my opportunity to (somewhat) comfortably continue my education. Instead, they have unyieldingly offered me the options of

- a full course load (to which my oncologist has explicitly objected )

- a part time course load with full tuition AND automatic academic probation (a nice, permanent addition to the academic record)

- surrendering my status and privileges as a CAS student and becoming LPS

- leaving.

The decision to continue to take courses is not a foolhardy one, nor one without some basis of understanding of the limitations of my...predicament. Doctors seem to agree that the practice of being "normal", however one chooses to define it, is essential for maintaining the positive psyche necessary to successfully complete treatment. The University of Pennsylvania has decided that it knows better than my oncologist regarding my health. The mindset: Why don't I just leave them alone to deal with healthier, happier students? Or, more forgivingly, we can assume their actions intended to alleviate. Benevolent intention or not, they have just made me all the more stressed, which according to medical professionals will weaken me, my resolve, and ultimately, my chances at recovery. So thank you, University of Pennsylvania, for placing yet another obstacle in my path to relative normalcy, already cluttered with things like hair loss, overwhelming fatigue, potential infertility, oh and the massive tumor in my chest. Who doesn't appreciate a good kick when they're down?

The combative(read: ornery) nature of this post does not go unnoticed. I would like to blame it on the 30 years I've aged in the past few months. The sort of lethargy attributed to years of simply existing.Though the wrinkles haven't developed (yet), there is a sort of grey that has taken over my eyes in place of the usual glint. I am worn down and embittered. Gravity(multiple references here) has hit physically and mentally.

I understand higher education is a service industry. This is not lost on me. The fact that I have to pay full tuition for part time (and be put on probation) as part of a policy to discourage students from "coasting", when in fact part time is the maximum allowable given that I will have chemotherapy cocktails (aka vicious cell-destroying poisons) circulating my body, accurately depicts this notion. Not to mention, going to class will prove difficult when I am confined to a hospital bed for 3 weeks at the end of term. This is not to suggest I do not find myself capable of completing a part-time course load successfully. This is also not to suggest I seek special treatment beyond the recommendation of my Harvard Medical School-trained oncologist. I intend to contribute to my classes to the best of my abilities, and I hope to be held to such a standard. I simply ask to be accommodated where accommodation is needed. It's not about sympathy, it's about fairness.

Another frustrating aspect is the guise of assistance they paint upon themselves. Support! Advising! Come to us for this session on x,y,z, we'll help you do x,y,z. File a report! Tell your RA! The means through which problems are supposed to be solved. Yet, in circumstances these means would most useful (I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest cancer is an extenuating circumstance), they instead choose to adhere to policies and rules that do not acknowledge extraordinary circumstances. They are as black and white as the text in which they are written. To give credit, they do allow one to leave and come back. Or drift off into the world of LPS. But I should not have to choose between going at the full speed I was once able to maintain and stopping entirely. I also should not have to switch into a school of general studies, inconveniencing and potentially endangering to my ability to graduate with my desired major in a reasonable period, in order to accommodate. I should not be penalized (read: put on probation) for desperately trying to continue my education amidst limitations outside of my control.

The policy is unfair and does not support the kind of student it seeks to protect. It fails to consider the needs of the ambitious and determined; the kind of student that demands the challenge Penn is supposed to provide. The kind of student Penn recruits and spits out into the world to make something (exceptional) of him/herself. The kind of student that does not simply "give up" when presented with adversity. This is the stuff of college admissions essays - you should know better.

So I ask you, University of Pennsylvania, to allow me to do all that I am capable of. Hold me to the standard of excellence assumed when you accepted me (I'm going to assume there was one - go with it).

Here's the plan:

Regardless of what happens over the next few months of surgery, treatment, and hospitalization, I'm going to graduate from the College of Arts and Sciences. Maybe even by my projected graduation date! (I know I'm reaching here.) I would make some sort of statement asserting "you can't stop me," but I feel that would be excessive, and too easily considered a dare.

I understand that cancer makes the assertion of future goals presumptuous. But I refuse to allow this affliction to define me. I wish you would do the same.

PSYCH001

2011-01-18T14:00:00.000-08:00

"Well I looked my demons in the eyes,
laid bare my chest, said 'Do your best, destroy me.
You see, I've been to hell and back so many times,
I must admit you kind of bore me.'" Ray LaMontagne

We're on to biopsy round 3. Pre-surgical testing this week, getting chopped up next week. More scar tissue to dance around my purposely deflated(and then re-inflated) lungs, more tissue for pathologists to play with under microscopes and various stains. Make a pretty picture, please. And a prettier diagnosis. Then Chemo(again!) then a bone marrow transplant(I may be donating to myself if all goes well). A series of 3 day hospital stays culminating in a 3 week. The remnants of athlete within scream at the thought. Somehow amidst this I will act as a student and (student) leader, and maybe a social creature as well. (No promises on the last one though.) I don't know why I'm still in this lazy, anti-social mindset. I don't know why I don't seek the company of others as avidly as I did in the past. I don't know why my room has become as much of a source of comfort as it has a black hole of productive activity. The wrong weather can easily deter me from ever leaving my house. No commitment, no matter how important or enjoyable, can motivate my movement.

In these few weeks leading up to my next round, I'm allowed to drink. I don't want to drink. How cruel. A 21st birthday to be spent spurning bars and their frequenters. In what nightmare did this scenario emerge?

The worst of it is, it's starting to bother me less and less. Though not accepting this new version of myself hasn't compelled me to be anymore active than it has made me anxious, I can't help but think retaining that POV(i.e. the one that condemns my fatigue for laziness) is essential in retaining some aspect of the former "me".

An identity crisis, how post-adolescent of me. Right on schedule.

Back to School

2011-01-12T13:29:00.001-08:00

Syllabus day. Books are cracked open for the first(and potentially last) time by students eager at the thought of their own gratification. The intellectual curiosity is at its peak in the first few days of roll call and administrative set up. Questions seem easy and open-ended, lacking the "wrong answer" that frightens away participation by even the most audacious of students. The motivated souls sit with pens raised at paper; fingers hoovering over keys. The distraction techniques of later courses have yet to spill onto the screens of the relatively well-slept individuals.
There is an anticipation that can only be derived from a lack of awareness of what is to come -the impending, the inevitable. Fresher faced and more fancy free than these students have found themselves in recent weeks, they await the instruction with (almost) baited breath at the thought of successful completion. Yet to submit to the stresses of balancing activities, prioritizing actions and commitments, they remain hopeful that their capacity to try will see them through. And it does, often enough - though not necessarily with the all goals and promises made still intact. But who among us can honestly say they have remained untouched, remained poised above the masses with the omnipotence of the most crazed curve-killer?

Set phasers to stun, it's another semester.

New York

2011-01-12T12:59:00.001-08:00

I've been here in better times. I can recall walks and skips and jumps on each unique strip of cracked pavement. When alone, I would be joined by a book. With friends, I would be joined by a drink. I remember sips and bites of the cheap and expensive, with steamy side dishes of gossip and gaiety. It was about exploring the places we'd heard of once or whoever had the cheapest cocktails. We pranced around these streets like nothing could touch us. And nothing did.

And then the days grew shorter as slowly as the last 15 minutes of a work day. Time turned itself over to new arrangements of commitments, based on new priorities. Life was reset to a default found only in novels praised for their ability to "get to the heart of the matter". The dramas, the tear-jerkers, the stories that attempt to speak to the strength of the individual. Adversity is encapsulated in a well known character, character trait, or external force we all know and fear. Human succeeds with the weaknesses of his humanity, we dwell on the miracle, and cheer for the brief fleeting moment we think such things are possible in real life.

I'm sitting in a car, traveling past as an observer. I do not sip or skip on these streets. My stomach is a child on a trampoline after too much cake. Sure, the cake was delicious and the traces of icing around his mouth make him look adorable and carefree. But the bouncing. Oh, the bouncing. Stumbling forward after a bad bounce, he catches himself near the edge. He waits, unsettled by the nearness.

I have this sense of foreboding that makes me want jump up and run as far away as possible. I feel tainted by merely sitting in this waiting room. This room is too full. There are too many people here too much older than me, too exhausted to make small talk with those around them. Let's do roll call. Why are you here? I ate a bad steak. My apples glow in the dark. A rogue vaccine. I'm rich. I'm poor. I'm coughing. I can't. Its growing. Its not. What to do, what to do.

A (Biological) Clockwork Orange

2010-12-24T02:28:00.001-08:00

During my post-finals "I refuse to leave my bed/couch" stage(a beautiful, beautiful thing), I rewatched "Someone like You," starring Ashley Judd and that hot guy whose name I can't think of right now. There was one scene in particular that resonated with me for reasons to which most people my age won't be able to relate (fortunate for them). The sister and her husband are at a dining room table. The husband futilely attempts to jab an orange with a syringe - after the wife exasperatedly grabs the objects from him and completes the task, we learn she is taking fertility drugs which require jabbing a syringe into her ass.

Now pause. What is the connection? Animosity towards citrus fruit? Needles in my ass? (No to the first and a "I hope not" to the second. "Yes" to the Can-this-post get any-more awkward?)

You see, cancer and its partners-in-crime chemo and radiation do a funny thing to fertility. Apparently, this is supposed to worry me. And make me want to either take some period-suppression pill or rip out some ovaries and freeze 'em for Sunday dinner (no, not actually, ya weirdo). As a 20-year-old girl just trying to graduate and uh, stay alive, I am less than concerned with procreating. Actually, (most)(sane) people (not on MTV) are trying to avoid that uh, miracle of life bit as much as humanly possible.

So, what to do about babies? To this dismay of all desperately awaiting (grand)parenthood(ie my mother), egg harvesting (stowing away eggs for a rainy day) clinics haven't exactly figured out how to uh, jam 'em back in after the fact. Still waiting for that one. So, I was given an option with an actual success: in vitro fertilization!!! (get the egg fertilized first, and then freeze it.)

Oh great!

But wait. One problem: who is fertilizing this egg? I'm not exactly set on bearing anyone's children at this current point in time. And I doubt my boyfriend would be at-all surprised by that revelation.

Which brings me to my next point: Can we just dwell on how not-age-appropriate this topic is? Ok, so with the awareness of "Sixteen and Pregnant"/"Teen Mom"/girls who got knocked up at my high school, the I'm-too-young argument doesn't really fly. But what else do I have? This is inappropriate for my current stage in life? I already have finals and you want me to worry about SPAWNING ANOTHER HUMAN BEING? (About that...) Maybe I'm just refusing to be an adult. Be mature. Truly consider my future. To which I say: Fuck it. I'm a college student.

Now back to the syringe-in-ass. Due to the doses of fun I've received over the past semester/are going to receive over the next (because it didn't really work the first time around - just found out ya'll!!), I'm on track for the Charlotte York storyline instead of the Miranda (for those unaware of the reference, one is a woman desperate for housewife of the month/small versions of herself and the other is a workaholic who gets knocked up by accident), which perturbs me.

Priorities can change over the course of life. We may find ourselves seeking top preschools as avidly as we once sought top summer internships. (gasp!) And as much as I may dismiss it now, I may find myself struggling with infertility. Despite this plausibility, I can't help but think I'll be okay. As long as I have my person by my side, willing to jab a syringe in my ass.

So there you have it folks. Love is finding someone willing to jab a syringe in your ass. Eloquence.

Ode to Willow Smith

2010-12-20T02:20:00.000-08:00

I brushed(whipped) my hair(back and forth) for the first time today.

And by "hair" I don't mean the $500 haircut that requires constant upkeep - I mean my actual, inch-long, strands. Weeks after chemo, I've finally reached the stage in which I don't feel a sense of revulsion when I touch my scalp. Because for the first time in a few months, the hair (mostly) stays in place when I touch it. More importantly, I've had the audacity to try.

I never thought I'd ever appreciate the resilience of a real head of hair. Sure, I've tested its limits in the past (a chapter in my life we will refer to as "sibling throwdown" or "don't touch my socks"). But after many an episode after a shower or nap, resulting in clumps of hair on a pillow or in a drain(sorry housemates), I had forgotten the wonder that is brushing one's hair - without the concern it will leave with your brush. I won't be overly boastful - it's not planning on making any Rogaine commercial endorsements anytime soon. But at least it lacks the look of sparseness it once possessed. I can no longer clearly see my scalp through the individual strands. My spring, when everything else is winter. Things will grow, things will blossom, things will return to their desired state.

Radiation intends to revert the forest back to scrawny saplings it was composed of (trying to hard with this, I know, run with it). But I think I can handle it; knowing that there is, in fact, a spring.

And no matter what the groundhog says, it always comes.

"It's My Bar of Chocolate"

2010-12-11T12:21:00.000-08:00

I am drowning in thought.

Time limits capability. Yet it does not limit the willingness to accomplish, the desire to attempt. There has been much discussion on the notion of being "merely human" - the restrictions such a notion implies. A quote on a Dove chocolate wrapper: You don't have to do it all.

But what if you want to? Pick your battles, they say. But what if you don't win the war? And to that: who defines the terms of engagement? Who says when it ends, and the next begins?

What is worse: physical or mental exhaustion? What causes more frustration: the fatigue of our limbs or our minds? Be good at something. But what thing? What is the right thing? What if it's the wrong thing?

We may be only limited by our imaginations. Isn't that a nice thought? For those with minds confined to the apparent and the expected: try a little harder. Then again, they might have the right idea. They may never have to know the frustration that can only come from the want of something more; the very realization that it exists. It has been asserted that managing expectations is the key to contentment. The dreamers must fool themselves, a ruse to be maintained and practiced. There are of course, nuances in the realm of happiness, but contentment in itself seems unsatisfactory. It reeks of settling. Then again, there are cards dealt that we often cannot evade, cannot alter for greater benefit - or any benefit. It is said that it is irrational to allow sunk costs to influence future decisions. Chase bad money with more money - but what about chasing wrong use of time with more time? A defined assembly of choices; a distinct path? Do the same stipulations apply? Some choices are less reversible than others. And being wasteful is rarely considered positive - even if the discarding of a certain assembly of choices could lead to a better path. This requires one to first be aware of said path. And then the more frightening aspect: making a decision about it.

Apocalypse COW(s)

2010-12-08T20:19:00.000-08:00

Preface:

This passage is based on a very loose grasp of the topics/events/concepts of basic mathematics covered. A good, solid ramble.

Further, I reserve the right to keep my room stocked with Godiva, Hershey's, Apple Jacks, other super-healthy items. I understand that my uh, "preference" (euphemism for: obsession) for chocolate(errr crack) may appear to undermine my support of healthy eating, but let's role with it.

Major issue with Mobama healthy eating campaign: LEAVE MY BAKE SALES ALONE.

Bake sales were the go-to fundraiser at my precious high school. Science club? BROWNIES. Drama Club? BROWNIES Italian Club? cann-BROWNIES.

I reserve the right to raise money for often purely social events under the guise of "being educational". And to make 7th period slightly more endurable the best way possible: a sugar high (not to be confused with other kinds of brownies and other kinds of highs, ahem).

Despite this, I have to admit that some regulation of cafeteria slop (sorry slop) is in order. For the kid with the choice of fried this, fried that, and salad, what do you expect? (And no, it shouldn't be salad. Fools.) Kids need better options to make better choices. Obviously suppliers/budget-tight school boards aren't the most incentivized to go this route, which is why they could use a little push.

Sarah Palin, at least to my understanding, is vehemently opposed to Michelle Obama's campaign against eating unhealthy food. Another step towards big government, legislation infringing upon the citizen's right to be fat, doomsday. The mindset I am referring to adheres to the belief one of the four horsemen was an alleged Muslim whose wife suggested kids eat their damn brussels sprouts. Call me statist, but I can't help but think that the government may have incentive to protect its interest in this arena(which it is constitutionally permitted to do...probably?). In less PC terms, fat people are expensive. Fat, poor people are expensive. Junk food is cheaper, more convenient, all-around more attractive to the busy(or lazy, if I take the elitist tone) barely-making-breadwinner that is depicted by politicos and people who actually care (the charitable, activist sort).

Ways to tackle a problem in my imaginary government handbook: economically or socially. (Militarily is also on the list but I don't feel it is relevant...at this time. There's an Onion article for that.) Sure, they can make soda more expensive and provide subsidies for apples. But who wants a fucking apple? So, the social approach: leverage popularity(read: influence) to change behavior. I like apples > I am cool > you should like apples. To be fair, Mobama's penchant for J Crew hasn't been the most adopted in inner-city circles. I think we may have a better shot with items that aren't marked up 400% of their original value, no? (The validity of that number is questionable, as is the assumption that this isn't the case with produce, but go with it.) Probably-more-accurate assessment: those cardigans are 5x the price of a cardigan at Conway. Beyond demand, there is also the issue of availability (or scarcity, in this case). Shop rites tend to lose out to corner stores in the areas in question.

But ah, the loss of flexibility. And the ability to actively choose salad over fried this/that. The decline of trust in the notion that the average American possesses and actively uses the ability to discern what is good for him/her/spawn of him/her. Should we not give them the chance?

Maybe they'll surprise us.

Yellow Paint

2010-12-07T17:36:00.000-08:00

Recent events have had a bit more shock value than usual. Shootings, stranglings, flashings - All within a few block(to few mile) radius of our bubble. Speckling the otherwise smoothly pattern-esque splatters of sex, drugs, and power-play. The conspicuous specks are such because their inherent outsiderness. They behave differently, and as such, are suspicious.

And from that, frightening.

And from that, sensational.

What to make of it? They taint the scene like any other splotch on a pristine canvas, yet they strike a different cord. They're outsiders.

The shooting.

What shocked me is that the suspects are(were?) 18. An 18-year-old old was shot dead because his idea of a good time on a Saturday night is a car jacking. Thinking about the stupid shit my friends and I pulled in high school, car jacking just wasn't one of those choices. I guess we were pretty fortunate in that regard.

Sometimes I forget about the state of things outside of my little bubble, and then gun-toting teenagers storm the scene. What world do we live in? Well, I suppose it depends on your idea of a good time.

Then I remember this bubble is supplied with its narcotic of choice from boys in frat bedrooms, dorms left unlocked. The motivation? Just getting by, perhaps. Something to do. The cost-benefit analysis of getting ahead vs. getting caught.

Not so different, after all.

Saturation

2010-11-30T01:54:00.000-08:00

I encountered literary porn this weekend.

It was the sort of occasion demanding confrontation with an old friend - the novel. With a semi-truamatizing traveling incident leaving me stripped of my father's generous donation to the chemo-doesn't-have-to-suck-that-much fund, I had to salvage the next-best distraction. I fell in rapture over the apt lines, the descriptions "just-so". I even underlined.

I couldn't decide if my enjoyment stemmed purely from the text itself or my recently-misplaced ability to focus on such a thing. You see, chemo steals not only one's hair, sanity, strength, will to live, but also one's ability to focus. But I suppose that has some overlap with the aforementioned. It also leaves a bad taste in one's mouth(literally). I dream of days when water tickles the tongue in cascade, the way it's supposed to. When you have the association of purity with a particular substance, subtle tricks of the senses can really do you in. My sense of smell is another devil in itself, deliberately delving itself into bouquets of fetid, sharp, and overwhelming. Truly catering to the already aromatic, airy atmosphere. And by that I mean, stuffy spaces crammed with antiseptic-coated seats and McDonald's bags.

But enough of my senses, let us get a sense of the sensual selection of text. (The alliteration was totally necessary, ahem.)

Rand has triggered my lyric-finder. Once used predominantly to capture the angst suspended above a 3-chord melody, it has found itself restless as of late. But to find what? Lines with the right flow and the right association to be tucked away for later plastering or recitation.

Hopefully it will remain stimulated through my next journey through the tunnel of discomfort to the eventual decompress. Remain engaged until the fat lady sings(or unhooks my IV...) The very hopeful end to an end less satisfying.

Though at the very least, please let it be an end.

"Reasons like Seasons, They Constantly Change"

2010-11-22T12:52:00.000-08:00

Friendship is occasional, continuous; apparent and indistinct. How do you like your coffee? Black, or diluted with milk?

Sometimes it depends on the season.

Let's examine.

The type of friendship that spans periods of blankness, when awkwardness pervades hellos and wedges distance in greeting. And then they resume, back to cuddly honeymoon periods when the time is right and a branch is extended downward. The other must make the choice to climb up, despite the steepness of the fall. Sometimes branches give the appearance of reach - a weeping willow practically begs.

And sometimes the rigidity of growth prevents a noticeable dip.

The importance of flexibility, fair saplings, always comes into play. Some may choose to actively stretch, some may languish and toughen. Though like trees, fair weather makes one more attractive. Affection in times of starkness is a far better test of friendship.

Funny that without the cluster of leaves, things become more clear.

All's fair in love and abbreviations

2010-11-17T13:27:00.000-08:00

Abbreviations. Shortening of the meaning, or just the phrase?

I think back to my high school freshman boyfriend who, bless his heart, was a bit of a jump start on the affection wagon. Let me break the time line down for you like this:

Day 1-10: copious amounts of "AIM convos".

Day 10: group movie venture. hand holding. (gasp.)

Day 12: New Years' Eve. Awkward cuddling infront of friends. Awkward kiss in front of friend cheerleading the moment, who we will refer to as "the instigator".
Day 12-13:

AIM profile update:

ilu ari!! <3 1.1.05

"ilu"? First of all, what the hell is that. Secondly, if you're going to spout off bits of warmth on a public electronic forum, at least keep it classy; being 15 is no excuse.(This coming from an adherent to the "fuck bitches get money" AIM-quote-post-cult. Right.) Further, we have been dating for roughly...50 minutes. We have been "involved" for 3 days. Maybe. Hand holding and forced peck later and you love me? Uh. I wonder what you tell the lunch ladies who serve you those fries you're so jazzed about.

What made this all the more intriguing was the lack of vocal confirmation. Sure, the kid could type 3 words(Oh sorry it was letters. Letters?! Ugh.) and post it on his "every important detail you could ever know about me ever" profile, but he was lacking the personal touch. I guess sideways hearts don't translate to speech? Must look into that.

Obviously this blossomed into a steady, healthy relationship filled with many, many ilu's and the occasional hand grab. By that I mean, he refused to sit with me and my friends at lunch. We made out in a movie theatre about 5 times while my friend, the instigator, sat two seats over. (I was not allowed to go on "dates"). I ultimately had to bring the warm, gooey ilu-fest to an end after getting grounded. If we couldn't get hot and steamy on a Friday night, what was the point?

Crispy

2010-11-16T03:59:00.000-08:00

I am looking for a full bodied experience. I'm not sure what that means anymore.

Should it touch shoulders while skirting ankles? Or is it one of those internal type of deals? How meta can we get with this, anyway?

I went downstairs seeking toast. what did I find? toast. slightly burnt bread with melted fat drizzled on, like a masterpiece of the mundane. I had the gall to marvel at its lack of satisfaction. Being hellbent on breaking the rules of reality, I tried a second round, hoping for a change. Toast is toast, and identical actions will garner identical outcomes. It would be ludicrous to assert otherwise. Require a dash of denial and a sprinkle of ...sublime? That will do, yes.

Toast at 6:30am should be a sublime experience. It is decided.

The Art of Being Totally Selfish

2010-11-02T17:06:00.000-07:00

I am not voting in the elections because it is too damn cold. (It's a popular sentiment.)
I am also terrified of the reality that my ANC(read: level of infection fighting bits) is so low a cough will send me to the hospital. If you sneeze near me, I will run for the hills.
Though there are plenty of germs lurking amidst the cushy carpeting and couches, I refuse to leave this house. (This is also probably due to the fact that I am incredibly lazy and my sweatpants are considered unacceptable outside wear, but pettiness is a bad look.)

There is actually a song illustrating my current state of affairs. Please see Lyrics - Frank Sinatra, "Luck be a Lady" (replace "luck" with "health")

Lyrics of note:
you might forget your manners
you might refuse to stay
and so the best I can do is pray

They insist I should be wearing a face mask to class, and despite my little HEY-I-HAVE-CANCER front page fiasco, I want to operate under the delusion that (most) people don't know. I like to think that my efforts to assimilate via appearance(read: wear make up and brush my hair like a normal, non-hopeless person) are not futile and I imagine tossing a SARS-scare-era face mask into the mix may upset that. I understand that this means I am "asking for it" and behaving in a counter-productive way (Do I want to get sick and have to drag on the chemo-ing? Do I miss having hair?), but goddammit I want to feel normal. This is a selfish and (probably expensive) desire, but it is one of the few remnants of "old self"(read: pre-cancer) feelings that I possess, so I will tether myself to it like a tree they're about to tear down. Cancer and related issues: bulldozer.

So I will continue to not draw attention to myself and instead, purell the shiz out of my surrounding areas... and refuse to leave my house, save for class. Balance? Maybe. Ridiculous? Certainly. Effective? I hope so.

(De)Mean Girls

2010-10-24T17:10:00.001-07:00

"I have felt personally victimized by Regina George."

And by Regina George, I mean the DP. Thanks to tireless efforts to be ethical(if that clause was a wet dish rag there would be drips of sarcasm seeping from it.), the DP managed to purport my struggle with a "sexy", controversial illness into a centerpiece. Literally. As in my picture was the "centerpiece", as industry terms go, of Friday's issue. How special do I feel? SO. SPECIAL.

The garish display, especially without proper accompaniment, made the message appear hallow and insipid. The event attempted to capitalize on the strength of the individuals who participated, yet the commentary did the opposite.

The "beauty" of the event was the choice of the participants to share - and share in a way that they felt comfortable with(ie in a intimate setting of couches graced by 30ish of their peers). The DP, with the careless efforts of their photography department, successfully managed to completely undermine that. But a thanks is in order - now I no longer have to broach the awkward subject with friends, acquaintances, faculty, etc, myself - people are more than comfortable approaching me with a subject I was *clearly* comfortable enough with to plaster across the campus newspaper's front page. However, I will definitely think twice before participating in such events involving such sensitive subject matter, because those "in charge" of relaying these events to the greater Penn community lack the sensitivity necessary to do appropriately.

On this campus, a sorority girl pictured without her hair is as shocking as a celebrity's crotch shot. To those who suggest the public nature of the event makes such documentation(without permission) allowable: it's one thing to undress in a women's locker room; it is quite another to undress in front of a camera.

I wish I could say it was my brave act, as it has been referred to, that graced the cover of the DP, but that feels like a sham. Yes, I willingly ripped my hair prothesis(as my prescription that was summarily rejected by insurance says) from my head in manner similar to a drunken coed flashing "Girls Gone Wild" style. However, the coeds at least do so in front of a camera and (albeit drunkenly) provide (some sort of alleged) consent. In my case, the presence of cameras at the event became overt only during the discussion afterwards - interrupting the reflective silence, each comment was accompanied by a flash. And even then, no briefing was provided on the ownership of the cameras/photos.

I understand the need to utilize the sexier aspects of events for headlines and the like - I do dabble in the marketing side of things, after all. However, this can be done with ethics in mind - an element which has been sadly lacking from an arena whose dictates require said element. An arena that has lawyers, conferences, meetings, casual reminders, etc specifically for said element. Why waste the time and energy?

A good rule of thumb regarding professionalism: act professionally. If you are going to attempt to tackle serious issues, deal with them with the dignity and gravity they deserve. In reverse, if you feel you cannot: do not. Simple. As. That.

Fish food(der)

2010-09-27T23:04:00.000-07:00

It has been noted that my attention span can be equated to that of gold fish with a learning disorder. This has been troublesome in the past, particularly with friends.Though I suppose acting like a pet who only wants to be fed sporadically would cause some issue.
Gluttony at its best: my fish Caitlin died from overfeeding(aka my friend the fish was not named after - cough Jessie - dumped an entire container of fish food into the tank. I'm still bitter about it.)
And then there are some people for whom portion size has no meaning. I'd join 5 different extra curricular activities just to have an excuse to see them. People who I want to bother relentlessly but realize under regular societal constraints it would come off fairly awkward.

I hate needing excuses to encounter people. A person with whom I have nose-touching level of friendship calls it "creeping" and I feel it is an adequate expression of our interaction. It's love in the 3rd degree; reminder of the time when waging wars with oven mitts were the only battles worthy of fighting.

I feel tingling in places I'm not supposed to. It is one of the few reminders of the weekly dosage of sunshine and ponies captured in a syringe that makes me wish for rain.

I know I should be more appreciative. But dammit, being thankful is hard when you fall asleep during the prayer.

Sunshine on tap

2010-09-25T13:45:00.000-07:00

There's sunlight pouring through my window. At 9am, it makes me yearn for the curtain I forgot to purchase. At 10am, it makes me thankful for forgetfulness. At noon, it makes me feel like a bum. But that's commonplace, I think.

Body's strewn across the bed like a rag doll with crumpled limbs. Today's temperature melted my resolve and sent me crawling back to bed(with an iced caramel macchiato). I woke up knowing that it would be a war of attrition - my desire for freebies at a festival vs. my obnoxiously frequent guest, weakness. Desire held strong for a while, allowing body over here to paint a seasonal orange squash(pump...kin? yes.) and play holly hostess with some cupcake coupons. Desire's shields, fortified by ample supplies of iced coffee and sugary snacks, dissolved throughout the afternoon. Weakness was quick to strike, sending body back to where weakness resides: cushiony places with rumpled sheets.

Fairness is a dose of tylenol. (I'm not allowed any.)

Let's have some cheese with that w(h)ine - ha. People are still wonderful, faster and longer lasting than the drugs to sustain me and make me function semi-normally.
Me gusta soar, me gustas tu. (hi dara)

word vomit

2010-09-25T13:23:00.000-07:00

(tuesday)
Today I'm feeling pretty damn good. In comparison to yesterday, which shouldn't count as a day. For you see, one of my three (yes, three) anti-nausea meds ran away, and forced me to deal with the terrible feeling of...being nauseous. But just slightly. Just enough to curl up in a ball and never move, but not enough to really do anything about it.
My nausea has a pokerface. I did not call it's bluff because that would just be a ...terrible thing to do. Decided.

I'm in an odd spot right now.

My head is the clearest it's been in days. I should write a novel.

Realization: people are wonderful.

I had missed the slightly operatic sound of collective singing. The sort of songs that fill the empty bellows of your being. The ones that, despite the hiatus, would never let you forget them if you tried.
It carries you as you find yourself echoing words in an unrepentant volume in one of the few places where even the off-key are welcome.

Home is a few words and fewer places. But they all feel right to me.

Goals and Volleys

2010-09-18T17:07:00.000-07:00

Today I was the most athletic I have been in months. Or rather, best attempt at athleticism(in months). Let us start there. Chasing down buses(successfully...some of the time) and hurtling towards closing subway doors are activities that simply do not count.

It was a lovely day at the park. Funnily enough, I actually live next to one and yet have managed to successfully avoid it most of the summer - work reasons or otherwise. Probably had something to do with my exercise abilities going to die there. It was a lovely ceremony, marked by some vomit after some dynamic stretches(really? really? yes. ugh.) Defeated, I put aside my love for the park and walked home, water bottle full and heavy swinging at my side.

But today there was volleyball. And something about the ability to volley some lightweight synthetic orb over and over again, adjusting position slightly(or not so slightly...bastards) brought me back. Yes, I needed a break or two. or five. Running after a rogue toss was a bit of a strain. I was fortunate enough to have a very patient volleying-partner(our opponents sort of gave up on us and just let us fuck around with the ball for awhile). But all in all, it brought me back to days when my sticky fingers(goalie gloves are good like that) could stop (uh, mostly) anything that came near the net. Then there was the sprint up to the edge of penalty box, pause, look, and a (sometimes) successful punt to a (hopefully) open teammate. Choices. Total control over placement and play. For a brief, shining moment.

Apparently in a few weeks I'll be feeling up to a run. Public gyms are forbidden(people = germs. boo.), but at the very least I should be less inclined to cough every time I exert energy beyond a brisk walk. These are the sorts of constraints that, I imagine, will motivate me to run 5K's when the shenanigans are over. Just to prove to my ol' XC self that those Darlington meets that earned me permanent embarrassment on the cross-country highlight reel were (slightly) worth it. (Picture this: girl in uniform, practically bouncing with outstretched arm towards elderly man with whistle around neck, holding out a curious yellow object. Closeup: inhaler. As non-asthmatic runners zoom by effortlessly, girl shakes inhaler, puffs 2x, hands it back, continues on.) All is not lost.

Goals.

Many Bloodsucking Creatures

2010-08-28T15:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a fun-filled day of pokes, prods, and pre-surgical testing. Attempting to draw me out of my latest mini-mental-breakdown (brought on by its main culprit as of late: a blood test), my dad filled me in on the latest political news. Glenn Beck was having a rally at the Lincoln Memorial on the revered anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech.
Nice.
With a last sniffle and a "Ugh. I hate Glenn Beck.", I slipped onto the exam chair and allowed to the nurse to take what I was sure to be yet another donation to the Edward Cullens fund. My dad is a wizard.

I decided to do some follow-up on this precious display, and have a few thoughts on the matter:

- Beck has masterfully created a brand new sentence filler. Gone are the days of "um" and "like" - if you want to roll tea party style, start using "God" instead.

- Of course he was well aware of the potential controversy of the Martin Luther King speech anniversary - he was banking on it. One person's irreverent is another person's "maverick". One might infer that he hopes to have comparative statements about the impact or importance in later years. Perhaps even with quotations! He has engineered his role as leader of some sort of movement he hopes to be comparative to civil rights(of course, not the "progressive" aspects of it. just magnitude.) Beck's dreams involve textbook references with side-by-side photographs, SAT essay questions of compare and contrast. Go big or go home, I guess. And when you need to make a plate of BS big enough to feed Mama Grizzlies, such ingredients are needed.

- It's not that I feel his message is entirely worthy of ridicule. I was once an attendee of church picnic-like affairs. I can appreciate the strength of a sermon. The concept of "restoring honor" sounds as soothing to me as the next person. I just don't equate that with pro-life or pro-"marriage"(please note use of quotation marks) ideology.

- And it's not that I don't appreciate a conservative message. When it comes to the trivialities of politics(better phrased as "things that are trivial, like politics"), my loyalty shifts based on who has the better deal. Often enough, the Democratic party's keg is kicked and one has venture down to elephant town to get drunk. Sometimes they ID you and you have to drag your sorry ass back and hope someone makes a liquor run (though it might take a few years).

So that's it for my diatribe. Stay tuned for mosque talk, "reasons why my pediatrician sucked" and other bitterness!

Conversation Starters

2010-08-25T20:12:00.000-07:00

I lied to two people today.

Well, technically three. But the two main victims were told directly to their faces, which I imagine is supposed to make the crime more...repugnant.

The victims? A dentist and a hair dresser. Didn't know what hit 'em.

The aforementioned are the types of occupations in which rapport is awarded - or rather, considered part of the job. Despite hundreds of nameless mouths or heads of hair they shift and shape in a year, they are expected to maintain some sort of memory, in order to maintain the almost-ease of conversation with the annual patients whose intricacies, while inconsequential, allow them to feel more relaxed when remembered.(Though I don't imagine anyone ever feels relaxed enough for those horrid cleanings. Shudder.)

Yet, the same conversations remain in their repertoire. Targeted by age and gender, the questions are meant to elicit the small talk that creates the comfortable environment that is sought.

So, why make things uncomfortable?

When the mother hen-like dentist asks about the bandage or hospital bracelet, there is no point in mentioning the "c" word. Quite the conversation killer.

Or not so much killer, but monster-steroid enhancer. Adult sympathy, unlike it's adolescent counterpart, is experienced, hard-hitting, and often...hysterical. It asks the real questions. It has real-life comparison points and the worst: recommendations.

As much as I would love to foster intimacy with individuals who will as soon forget my teeth or hair specifications as they put away the file(or hair dryer), I feel it unnecessary. Excessive, if you will.

Why ruin their day with the knowledge that they're touching a (c word) patient?

The whole thing just seems silly to me.

So, if our encounter only merits a short or sporadic conversation, you will be told I had a minor operation. And that I'm going back to school in week. And that everything is swell.

Preset answers for preset questions.