I start blog posts all the time (in my head), I think oooooh I should write that down but sadly I am too bloody lazy!
I think of a million things that I could do before I sit down with the laptop. I am a realist so this isn’t a promise to write more just an acknowledgement that I should.
But right now Im here typing so lets see where we go.
Im sitting in bed with Effy (who by the way is moaning because she wants to play a game on my phone but doesn’t get how to play it so she makes me do it then moans even more because I am touching my own phone, vicious cycle) I have the fan on full even tho it isn’t warm and Im freezing but the moment I turn it off I set on fire, like every inch of my skin is burning. This is menopause on steroids as every medication I have to take has Hot flushes (ridiculous name, I prefer burning flesh of doom) as its side effect. But I tell myself its a small price to pay.
My only problem is all these little prices I am paying really are starting to add up. Like a trip to Primark, you see something and its £2 and your like omg £2 so you pick something else up, why wouldn’t you! It’s £2!! You get to till all proud of your self for being such a bargain hunter and you can’t wait to show your next doors neighbours cousins bestfriend the hilarious t-shirt you got her because it was £2 but then the harsh reality hits when the cashier says that’ll be £112 please. FUCK!
That is pretty much my life. I get slapped with £112 on the daily. Sometimes more then once. But I’m alive.
Did you know there was difference in being alive and being alive? That is not a typo. Being alive BC (before cancer not christ) being alive was awesome, life was an unwritten book. You live like everyday could be your last because you could be hit by a bus tomorrow. I am a big fan of that bus. I wish I could live like that bus might hit me. Not in a suicidal way. Metaphorically speaking. Its a good way to live. Like I said big fan of the bus.
Being alive after BC and being stage 4 (not curable) my bloody book has its ending and it doesn’t involve a fucking bus! It involves years (hopefully) of toxic poisons keeping the cancer from spreading anymore. My book is a black comedy of pain fear and more pain.
So you see all the while a metaphorical bus could make you meet your maker your ending isn’t written you are free to be a little reckless because you could get hit by a bus tomorrow.
Imagine the irony is a fucking bus kills me and not cancer!