She started hemorrhaging. They had to stop the surgery. They only got three of the five cancerous lymph nodes out. The other two were too close to blood vessels, and she had been given blood thinner, and she had already bled all over the damn place apparently, and lost so much blood that she was in danger of dying.
So she’s out; she is alive; she is talking and mentally composed. She is at her house laying around in bed all day eating soup and popsicles* and watching HBO Go. The three cancerous lymph nodes being gone is good; it isn’t some bullshit where the surgery was all for nothing. Three fifths of the cancerous mass being gone, like some slave voting compromise. The remaining two they will continue to try to shrink with radiation. Which you should read in the tone of Marvin Gaye singing in “What’s Goin’ On.”
I fucking told her going in: don’t hemorrhage. You’re gonna get on that operating table and you’re gonna want to hemorrhage all over the place, but don’t do it. They need to keep your blood in your veins to finish the operation. And of course, what’s the first fucking thing she does. Stubborn. Continue reading →
I’m trying to track down my college ex girlfriend. But She’s Korean, and Koreans are impervious to Google.
So are Mexicans, generally. Kenny Rogers the dog was owned by somebody; there was a name on his chip but it was something to the tune of “Miguel Hernandez.” Try googling “Miguel Hernandez Los Angeles” or even “Miguel Hernandez Echo Park” and see where that gets you. It sucks if someone’s considering returning your lost dog but it’s great if you’re on the sex offender registry I guess. Mexicans have 8 last names and 15 first names so good luck finding one individual. And then Koreans are WAY, WAY worse because you have 5 last names if that.
I’m trying to track her down because she was hot, and we had hot sex, and I want a picture to remind me what she looked like so I can beat off to her tonight. Except– what the fuck happened to Julie Kim? How is somebody not on facebook and tons of people knew her and yet no one has spoken to this person in over a decade?
What if she’s dead? What if she died on 9/11? What if I’m beating off to her later and she died being roasted alive by jet fuel and had to leap flaming through a plate glass window and fall 100 stories to her death?
So, pray to whatever god you pray to. Cast your wishes into the deaf and uncaring wind. I almost did. I almost prayed: “Lord, please don’t let Nikol die,” but then I thought God would hear me and think “oh, this jerkoff” and hit that red button and a game show buzzer would play– BAAAHHHHH– and she’d be dead. Or maybe the losing horn from “The Price is Right.”
Nikol is having surgery today. Eight hours to remove seven lymph nodes. Or something. Maybe five, I don’t know. Some number of lymph nodes where it makes the math extremely difficult to divide by eight hours. The surgery is so long and complicated that there is an intermission.
Lord, please don’t let Nikol die. Please please please, don’t let Nikol die.
There is a chance, a twenty per cent chance, that when removing the lymph nodes, one or more will break open and cancerous cells will leak into her bloodstream. This would result in a much quicker death from the disease. The cancer would be everywhere. Twenty per cent chance. Please don’t let this twenty per cent happen.
When she recovers, if she recovers, her immune system will be permanently compromised. She will have to take prednisone for the rest of her life. I don’t know what predisone is. I didn’t know what lymph nodes were; that they were part of your immune system. I didn’t know what the spleen did until Nikol had to have hers removed. Having a terminally ill friend is like having an old car– you learn how things work by watching them break all the time.
A lot of people are helping her. Someone is with her at the hospital; someone’s on her facebook keeping her friends up to date; Xeni Jardin, who is internet famous, is tweeting about her. Other people cleaned her house so when she returns home with her decimated immune system she won’t immediately fall prey to plague. My job is to take care of her son tonight. Spend the night over there, make him dinner, make him breakfast in the morning. Make sure he gets on the school bus. I guess– I don’t know. I should have paid more attention when Nikol was telling me these things on the phone. Maybe her anesthetized soul is floating over me watching me type these words, thinking I told you exactly what to do, you fucking retard. I gave you specific instructions; it’s not building a god damn particle collider– well, I’m sorry, discorporeal spirit of Nikol. My best friend is having fucking cancer surgery, it’s kind of fucking distracting. Jerk.
I always used to joke with her that I would take Trast to a whorehouse to lose his virginity. I almost posted that on her facebook– Trast and I are finally gonna take that field trip to Fontana. But she hated that joke. And plus if she dies it’s an asshole last thing to have posted on her wall. But then, she would have been even more pissed that I didn’t post a joke about taking her son to a whore on her wall. And if I had said “I love you and miss you and I am terrified that you are going to die and I am praying that you are going to be safe” she would have been infuriated.
Well, I love you. I miss you. I am terrified that you are going to die. I am praying that you are going to be safe.
Non-gonoccocal urethritis. The parking ticket of STD’s. Or if gonorrhea is the parking ticket of STD’s , this is the jaywalking ticket of STD’s— a good metaphor because you don’t even have to get in the car. I got it from a blowjob. FROM A BLOWJOB! When I was about to bone this chick the first time I was about 75% hard and she blew me , briefly, so I could get the condom on properly. There are ironies there I don’t even want to get into. But that’s how you get “NGU,” I guess. It’s a bacterial infection– ok, wait— who gets an STD FROM A FUCKING BLOWJOB? Continue reading →
OK, now I am back to wanting an actual girlfriend. Like, I want one. I want to get married, settle down, have kids, etc etc. So I gotta find one now. What a fucking pain in the ass.
I mean, seriously. I have tried this. We have been through this. And I failed. But apparently you are not allowed to simply fail– if you go through twenty years of trying to find a nice girl to get married to, and you come out of it beat up and exhausted and you just, you’d like to enjoy a couple months of just sitting on the porch with your cat and a nice room temperature glass of inexpensive pinot noir on a Friday night instead of let’s go out to bars where girls used to go, look at the girls, and be too scared to talk to the girls—you can’t do it; some mechanism in your glands fires off after a few weeks of defeated but relaxing non-activity and says “OK, good halftime, let’s get back out there.” Continue reading →
And you know, they are not wrong. I am an asshole. I am a “Piece. Of. Shit.” with three periods. I am a “sad little loser.” I deserve to have my “balls shrivel up and fall off.” I am “wrapped in a muscle suit of hate.” A muscle suit, of hate. Continue reading →
