When they say it is “treatable”

It still means you’d lose the breast.

You would have to get radiation therapy for up to 6 weeks, from Monday to Friday

You’d be going through chemotherapy, targeted therapy, or hormone therapy

And that the cancer may still return.

You can choose that, if living means so much to you.

Or you can do what the writer of this post is planning to do: keep the breast, both the ailing and the ticking time bomb next to it, and not do any of the therapies; try to live life to the fullest [or the only way you know how], visit the places you can, read the books you have always wanted to; drink, smoke, and fornicate [if you ever got in the mood, that is] when the anxiety becomes overwhelming; and hope you have a solid five years before the cancer breaks through the skin and/or destroys your kidney and liver, and you are forced to tell your mom what you did.

Remember getting treatment may let you live another day [albeit in a deformed, toxic body], but it still doesn’t protect you from being hit by a car, getting shot by a stray bullet, earth quake/wild fire/or any one of those charming calamities Global Warming causes to the world around you.

So, your choice!

Whatever you decided to do, however, make sure you treat everyone with compassion, fight for and donate to noble causes [like an Ebola fund in West Africa, or migrants at the Mexican border], and that you watch a butt-load of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend on Netflix. For it is funny.

Correction: It is “dense like dying stars”

To watch the video, and many more videos from “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend” go to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZx5zfkG6oU


July 13, 2019 at 1:35 pm Leave a comment

Cousin Matilda and the Foolish Wolf

For all those grown-ups who, like Troy, loved this book as a kid, put your own children to sleep reading it, and are finding it hard to find online: Cheers!

May 31, 2019 at 12:09 am Leave a comment

Year 10: I am thrice [self] published and diagnosed with Stage I Breast Cancer

And if I were able to go back in time and fix all the things that stack the odds against me, would I have:

  • Never smoked [and dealt with my crippling anxiety differently]
  • Never take a drink [and pass the time some other way]
  • Have kids?

The answer:

  • No
  • No
  • And.…….. no.

Would I have a kid right now, at this very moment, if I was told it would save my life?!

Nope. I would have an aquarium, with three gold fish in it. And a dog [and a small house in the suburbs with a pond, a swing set, and a little garden to plant flowers, vegetables, and a fruit tree].

If I can’t afford the house, then a cozy room apartment in the Capitol Hill neighborhood that over-looks a garden, is surrounded by trees – some of them fruit trees – with an access to a water-body and at a walking distance from the local bakery [where you can sit, drink coffee, and work on your laptop for hours] would do.

If that is not to be either, I would take:

  • A tap dancing class [because I like tap dancing. It is like Red Bull. It gives you wings]
  • Going and visiting New York [So I can walk through Central park in the Fall season/look at Brooklyn bridge from afar/and ride a ferry to Manhattan and take a stroll in its “fabulous” neighbourhoods thinking about the ladies of “Sex and the City”; eat Gifelte fish/New York-style pizza/a burger from White Castle or a bagel from a Jewish deli; hail a cab on Broadway and win some “Cash Cab” money]
  • Keep dreaming of someday going to Italy [to visit Venice, it’s architectures, have a grand breakfast before taking a stroll on its cobbled stone streets/riding a gondola/and feeding the pigeons in St. Mark’s Square]; and/or to live in a cottage near an England countryside and read lots and lots of books

The plan:

  • Get the treatment I need up to, and excluding, Mastectomy [if you have seen a nipple-less breast, like I did, you would not want to do it to anyone you love, least of all yourself – even if you aren’t crazy about yourself].
  • If it works, then try to live a more meaning-full life – ditch the self-consciousness/the [“Catholic”] guilt/the inability to live a day at a time; go to school to study editing/and pen a book people would actually be interested in reading; and adopt an ugly little orphan [say a black girl who reminds me of my younger self] and give her all the love I can.
  • If not, take out all the money I made/saved/borrowed from Wells Fargo bank using my fabulous credit score, go home, and die among the fam.

If I do not, that is, die from a bullet or car accident because some asshole decided to text and drive.

For now, here are the the books I wrote [the “houses” I “built”, so to say], in their order of conception! I earn about $0.35 cents a book [while paying $11/month to Microsoft to keep editing them on Word]. So I am not doing this for financial gains. I am doing it because the one thing I would undo from my teenage-years, the one thing I bitterly regret/am still very embittered about/will never forgive those who misled me for, is giving up 10 years of reading and writing [secular] books so I could be found worth Christ’s love as a super committed “ጴንጤ ቆስጤ”. Stopping writing at the height of my craft, at that! Thank you — Conservative Christianity [my wretched childhood, my fat ugly mug, and my paternal father]. I fucking owe you one!

[“It’s always good to blame the parents, right?” :)]

Click here to see my “babies” on Amazon.

May 22, 2019 at 7:03 pm Leave a comment

What I am being told I ought to like – by Google! – and how disrespectful it is.

Every time I went on a website, or visited Facebook, I find myself bombarded with right panel advertisements sporting black models. [Apparently, that was what the civil rights movement of the 1960s, “Black lives matter”, and the whole social-awareness thingy is all about: telling me what to buy using a skin color Google and its algorithm have deemed I am likely to trust.]

And I FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING hate it. Not just because black people generally don’t like other black people. And not even because those models look starved, snotty and fucking annoying. But because I FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING hate that I can’t escape the internet trying to paint me in a corner even while attempting to find an explanation for why every member of the not so quiet 99 percenter – but certainly not 1%er – Monterey, CA, community seems dressed up like spoiled-millionaire on Big Little Lies‘ first season finale.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is stupidbitch2.jpg
From Vulture.com

It is as demeaning, insulting, and disrespectful as noticing on Rotten Tomatoes how an exquisite piece of work like “Velvet Buzzsaw” gets a 63% Fresh Review; while that absolute shit-show “Keanu” boasts 77% [because it stars Jordan Peele and Keegan-Michael Key, you understand. One oughtn’t expect the same artistic excellence from black-folk as one ought to from Jewish directors, or even white ones, ought one? Black folk have, after all, been held back. They are segregated and Brown V. Board of Education-ed Against. What is more, their idea of a good movie is whatever shit Tyler Perry decided to throw together]. Downright patronizing when you give an Academy award to Lupita Nyong’o for Best Actress, while all of us know that girl fucking blows as an actor; in awarding Best Adapted Screenplay for BlackKkKlansman – in the presence of other more deserving contenders. And in making the lead guy of almost every movie made since 2000 always always friendly with black people even in shows where racism does not have to figure.

Yes, all politics is local. But does every shit coming off every mother-fucking screen has to be black for a black girl to enjoy it? Need every commercial on TV have a mixed-race couple? Ought the guys at NPR push Cory Booker down my throat as one of the runners with a fighting chance among the 2020 democratic party candidates, when I can tell [all by myself!!] there is not one genuine bone in that guy’s body?! [What next, I mean to say, you gonne touch my hair, call me “Sistah”, and offer me fried chicken?!]

Just saying.

Speaking of Black Mirrors; now there is a delicate balance American directors, American advertisers, would be wise to tread. There black people don’t stand jarringly out. They don’t make your mouth-drop, and/or stop and wonder. They simply blend – the way nature, presumably, intended. But then again, we can’t expect the same kind of artistic excellence and integrity [decency, charm, and wit] from Americans as we do from the British, can we?

And from news websites I visited in the last two hours.

May 11, 2019 at 3:02 pm Leave a comment

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