Bitch Session

My friend told me that she thought I was trying to run away from myself and that irritated me. I've been spread a bit thin lately, by my own doing, and I'm kind of tired of it. We were sitting outside on my new 2 seated rocker and she started analyzing me. I didn't appreciate it. Once before she questioned my recent busy travel itinerary and my decision to have liposuction and she wondered where I was getting all the money and if the many trips were causing instability in my children. I told her about the 'accelerated living' theory attempting an explanation. My husband reminded her, regarding my liposuction, that perhaps I deserved it after the shit my body has gone through in the last 15 months. So, a few days ago when we were sitting on the rocker, after I expressed my recent fatigue, she says to me, questioningly, "Accelerated living? Maybe you are trying to run away from yourself." Bitch. When I need pop psychology I'll watch Oprah, Dr. Phil or read Cosmo thank you very much! Then again, maybe I'm so sensitive because she struck a nerve. I'm sure to a certain extent I am trying to avoid some things. But shit, what am I supposed to do, sit aroung and contemplate my mortality? Think about the ways that I am f_cked? I don't know if there is a right way to do this. I'm certain there are lots of wrong ways to do it, but there are lots of wrong ways to live life cancer or not. Just because I'm not suscribing to the ways someone else thinks I should be living my life am I supposed to change how I do things? I know the pendulum is going to swing the other way and I am going to settle down. I can't keep up this pace forever. I guess I just want understanding, not judgement.

That's the weird thing about having had cancer. People, with very good intentions, come up to you and ask you how you are feeling. I'll tell you how I'm feeling; I'm feeling sick of this shit, dammit. I'm sick of people telling me that I look really good, almost shocked. Tell me that I look pretty, tell me that you like my shoes, tell me that my tits look great. Just don't tell me that I look good with this sorrowful smile on your face. I just want to be normal. I want to talk about things that everyone else talks about; my kids, the weather, Brad & Angelina. I don't want sympathetic inquiries. I don't even have a burial plot yet. Hell, I still don't know if I want to be buried or cremated. I know all of this sounds really ungrateful and I'm aware of that. But I don't want to be the elephant in the room. If I'm going to be the elephant, I'm going to sit right down and put my feet on the coffee table and pop open a beer and stay awhile.

I guess I've vented enough for one night. I'll be nice next time, I promise.