I SH!T AND THEN WORDS COME OUT

I have cervical cancer. Whatever. I feel fine. But is it just me or does modern medicine make everything worse and better at the same time. The first option given to me was a hysterectomy. For those of you without a vajj and don’t know what that means, it means they want to gutt me from the inside and rip out my uterus leaving me barren and empty from all insides of my insides. Its as barbaric as it sound and I thought to myself, “self its 2012 this can’t be the only way” Option number two Radiation which I start pretty soon actually. I wanted to do this right away. I picture it to be similar to tanning which is something given the complexion of my skin useless and quite silly, but now i’d be able to try it and instead of getting darker I get….well uncervical. But then option three came chemotherapy and by now I was like oh man I’m really not going to die cancers not so bad what’s been the big deal puh I have to take some pills, rub a little cream, and just wait this shit out. NOTHING IS EVER THAT EASY, WHY THE FUCK DO I HAVE POSITIVE EXPECTATIONS….anymore. I’m on day four of chemotherapy and my stomach hurts so much I don’t know what to do but to just keep it moving. I feel like I’m going to throw up 90% of the day, and my hair it already starting to shed….in clumps. Not to mention skin rashes blah blah blah fuck. But it just might work. Might being the operative word. I don’t mean to be negative or pessimistic, I honestly don’t but if you have had the interesting experience of knowing me you know that is usually how I function through my day, making this experience all the more hard for me, but I’m still smiling(after I wake up crying of course.)

No one reads my blog and I kinda like it that way but if you’ve come across this know that I love you and I still feel fine.

I want to try for the sake of not dying. Just so I don’t have to be that awkward story in the paper about a girl you barely even knew who apparently went to your high school, so now when you scroll through the arbitrary you can say, “hey I do you know she died?” I’d hate to be the reason someone gave up there sunday afternoon and there only day off of work to attend a caliginous ritual in a dismal funeral home with a bunch of people they’ve never met with the burden of extorting tears from their eyes at some point in order to pass as sentimental to the situation. I want to fight, because wanting to die seems selfish and is gravely looked down upon.  And you know theres so many people who beat cancer. So I want to live so I don’t seem like a pussy bitch who couldn’t fight. I want to live because I don’t want to be the blame for my own death. I don’t want to be another example of prevention, or a lesson a mother can make for her daughter. I don’t want to be millions of women. I just want to be one woman. I want to survive but I don’t want to be a survivor. To glorify a deed that came from pure chance is not a way to motivate the next person to live. I know because because these surviving cancer pamphlets make me sick and I don’t want to know its okay if I die or if I don’t make it, I want you to fix me and if you can’t I’ll fix my fucking self. I want to live but I also want to cry, scream, yell, choke, run, question, be held, be forgotten, throw up, smoke, drink, and be fucking merry. I want to live to see snow fall again. But guess what I personally wouldn’t care if I died. And that’s fucked up. 

My women parts are wounded

Can a bird fly with one wing

being a woman has given me false hopes and elusive dreams

Can a blind owl still move at night and flow through whole trees

What species am I without those parts that make my worth in gold

And is it worth the lost of my insides for a gain in half a life spent in caution and endless spite

To always have to mention, “well I can’t” “No its not contagious” “I don’t have that anymore” “I didnt tell you because I was scared”“Yes I’m still a woman

But what does that mean?

Yes I’m a woman but I’m missing woman things

14-billion-years-later:

One is craving the company of a person, the other is craving the existence of that person.

I wouldn’t of gotten out of bed today if crying didn’t produce snot accumulation in my nostrils and all over my face…..that bothered me so much. I would of stayed under my covers like a purple cotton ball and wished the world to burn in hell…JUST SAYING. 

For the Record: Last night I slipped into a short coma and no one noticed or even knows but it happened; I was there and it happened. My melodramatic tendencies allowed me to accelerate a compulsive urge to release the energies of a bad evening and turn into a cataclysmic war against  who I was and who I was striving  to be; those two never really got along. These thoughts seemed impossible. How do you know when you hit rock bottom when it seems significantly lower every time. With building up immunity to familiar situations and bullshit that was dealt with at a younger age, comes the comfort of being able to handle new unruly events. WRONG. That’s just life fucking with you, giving itself the upper hand with the element of surprise tricking you to believe that you can grow and learn how to control up and coming circumstances, and you were so dumb and too elitist to ever think it couldn’t happen to you again; that you couldn’t  do that to yourself again. 

If there was music playing in the background for me it would of been epically beautiful, with quite hint of violin eluding a melody over brass instruments working against the ere improvised piano stretching its self through the scale: B Flat Minor. 

I woke up this morning. I didn’t mean to, but it happened. I still tasted the rum in my mouth and even though I tried to fight against this head ache last night with fire and about five extra strength tylenols the momentary bliss of nothingness streaming my frontal veins had long surpassed. And then I burst into tears because I could see the suns glare through my window and I knew that I had been given another chance. I knew that last night when my heart came violently alive out of my chest to show me how well it could dance before death; that the intensity in my core and rapid pain shooting through my arm, and air out side my mouth that I couldn’t catch back in; I was not brave. Screams of help might as well have been a whisper meant to be a secret you say to someone you love because there was no one I loved here to hear my screams, everyone was asleep and soon enough so was I.

For the Record: Having balls doesn’t make you brave. I’m not brave.

Dear Blackguy in the red sweater who waits for me by the exit after my computer programming class,

Ask me out already.

Sincerely,

 Genise

love is bullshit. school is bullshit. people are bullshit. work is bullshit. etc etc etc

My name. baby drool. my emotions.snake skin. my yellow shoes. guys that don’t smile. my need for speed. coloring books with shades of gray. my scars on my legs. broken glasses. my uggs. heart diseases. my fears. homophobia. my ignorance. the ignorance of others. the people I can’t love. my ugly toe. hair dye. my vanity. the dark . my obsessions. animal cruelty. My inability to get out of bed most days. hot weather. my selfishness. when doors close behind me. Questions with no answers. waiting on line. Asian drivers. stereotypes. barbie dolls. commercials. telemarketing. smokers. the fact that I smoke. gluttony. being allergic. focusing energy on hate. greasy lotion. writers block. addiction. sex. forgetting. remembering. when I’m not listening to music, reading, writing, or laughing. losing a friend. having to many friends. being alone. not minding solitude. modeling. thieves. lies. mind games. playing hard to get. being hard to get. being hard. the times i get too soft. still being afraid. not being cold enough. losing my grip. teaching myself lessons. saying myself. talking to much about me. not listening. jealousy. my envious nature. no missed calls. too many texts. heart aches. insects in my stomach. strong words. passive phrases. getting too full. noticing how empty I am. crying while i write. trying to sound smart. mean girls. wish i was that girl. lying to myself. impossible men. men made of pain. mirrors. hair extensions. perms. high heels. being tall. diets. being over 135. my mistakes. my parents(sometimes). school (all the time). institutional bullshit. people who are full of shit. being part of the masses. growing up in America. busted pens. being shy. that no one knows how shy I am. how I hate how I hate how I hate etc.