(St.Francis this am, HOTTTTTT, MUGGY, HUMID. No shirt weather. For some reason, whenever the 4th is right around the corner, it gets like this.)
So, why the title?
Came back to Toxichouse yesterday, Spike is pointing to his jowls, poking fun @ Queen of the Damned. Turns out It has golfball sized protrusions on either side of It's jaws, i.e. lymph nodes. I.E. here we go again. Looks like a squirrel holding nuts-NOT those-in It's cheeks. Tomorrow, ANOTHER biopsy, petscan, catscan, scanscan.......Fuck me. Of course I told It, make sure you tell the oncologist EXACTLY how much time you spend in the sun.
Now, what do I do? Be authentic and pray it's the big C. No. Can't do that. Would LOVE for It to move out, have some fatal (though immediate) occurence, but no one should experience the big C.
Not even a total bitch.
...yes, I wanted to use the C word to describe It, but let's have some modicum of chivalry.
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