If there's cash involved, your bedside manner needs more oral.
Despite feeling as tatty as a tramp on trash day, my 13 year old ("Soon to be 14, MOTHER!") tells me I only look as bad as a one-eyed hooker named Steve. I blame the hormones. Moustaches can be tricky.
I think my cooter is mad at me. We can go back and blame it on the lack of action, or we can create an entirely new pseudo-reason. I vote for fresh bullshit. We'll throw our heads together and concoct the most ludicrous explanation possible for why my uterus doesn't play well with others.
I usually do.
From hearing the causes of cancer: cigarettes, asbestos, artificial sweetener, uv rays, cfc's, abc's, qvc's, arch-nemesis, your mom, my mom, her mom, peanutbutter, and living anywhere near Erin Brokovitch, we can look for common patterns and then make more shit up as we go. The most consistent element to most kinds of cancer I have knowledge of, including my own twat trouble, is that most patients that are diagnosed with cancer seen to be PEOPLE.
So, we'll start there.
Being alive seems to be a cause of cancer. Not many patients are diagnosed after demise. Even though we all may know a few dead people with the disease, it doesn't seem to bother you as much after the funeral. Maybe embalming fluid holds the cure.
You clowns took it too far.
My cooter is a real piece of work. Cramps be damned, I'm going to curse the cervix and vilify the vagina. That pussy is a pussy. Just because we have such a busy fall and winter and things are going our way is NO reason to grow a crop of fresh cysts. Self-sabotage is NOT the answer, you useless twat. (Hormones can be replaced you know, YOU'RE ON YOUR LAST WARNING BEFORE I YANK YOU OUT OF THERE!!) This fucking game was already over, I fucking WON. You can't rewrite the rules and play again.
I was blindsided.
When the going gets tough, the tough do not curl up in the fetal position and bleed for 10 days. Survival of the bitchiness is not what Darwin had in mind. Sniffling and snuffling is a bad frickin example of "not going quietly into this good night." The funeral parade when I finally shuffle off this mortal coil will include several marching bands, a convoy of 18-wheelers, tweeters, Shawn Spencer, a laser show, barking dogs, CARNIES, a Pat Benatar tribute half-time show, Disney-costumed preschoolers, 3 Bagpipers and a Bollywood dance number, a 2100-gun salute (aka; a buncha hillbillies firing illegal weapons at 9pm), and I'm assuming a gaggle of monkeys driving miniature sports cars.
And that's just day 1. The Wizarding Army comes on Day 2.
Keeping me alive to gather all those components is the key to a good funeral. The ringmaster to lead me to the events will need to be knowledgeable of both the cooter cavity AND monkey-based mechanics. Auditioning physicians is a task that I will only partake based on their willingness to keep their opinions out of the practicing part of medicine. I'm tired of guesswork and I'm done looking for the "WHY". If, in all these years, no doctor has been able to figure out what in the fuck is wrong with me, what in the fuck makes you think I want another batch of half-assed assumptions on what you may think the cause of my Uterine Cancer is? I'd rather eat my feelings.
They're colorful coming back up.
"I'm Sorry, you have a malignant humor. The prognosis is grin. We can try a hysterical-ectomy, but it's already spread to your laugh nodes." -Trick IX (@TrickIX)
I. Don't. Fucking. Know.
All I know for certain is that as broken as my bajinga may be, it is the greatest source of happiness I have ever know.
Long ago, on a planet not unlike our own in a universe eerily similar to this one, a child was born under the Libra moon who would go on to change the lives of every soul she managed to touch. Her beauty was accented by an inner calm, and she was fair and just and kind. (It was the "inner calm" that made you guess it wasn't ME, right?)
And they said she could never come to be, this opposite of everything I see, But I knew, I KNEW she would be a queen, much better than me.
Sweet Child of Mine.
Thanks to Trick IX for permission to use the wonderful hilarious words. Never has a more truer phrase been posted here on the Killer Cooter.