It’s blinking at me. Blink, blink blink. Like an impatient toddler pressing on a doorbell desperate for someone to answer. Blink, blink, blink.
It’s expectant, it’s ready, it’s waiting. Blink, blink, blink.
I hover over my keyboard. Watching the blinking type icon dance on the spot ready for me to type a letter. Any letter will do. Something, just type something. Anything will do. Blink, Blink, blink. Maybe I’ll surprise it and type ALL IN CAPITALS or I’ll just punch in my favourite thing on the keyboard and create a whole line of !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! – Ah the exclamation mark. How I love thee. Simple yet impactful. !
So little blinky line, why am I so hesitant to tap away? Well, it’s because I left you. I left you for a very long time. I totally abandoned you, completely walked away. I know you’ve been here. Waiting for me to come back. And believe me when I say I didn’t think either of us thought it’d take this long. But it has. I could have come back sooner, many times. I thought about it, a lot in fact, like all the time. Like some ex I was trying to ignore and couldn’t get out of my head. I’d get tipsy and tell people about you. Draft little notes for you. Compare you to other ones, but it was never the same.You were still there, blinking away. Waiting for me.
The problem was that last year, back in May, when I submitted my last post I was in a funk. An honest to goodness funk. I was Fed up. Pissed off. In a total huff. There were noises (of the huffing and sighing kind) rolled eyes at any opportunity and full on, armed crossed, sulking. Normally my moods pass as quickly as one of Britney’s marriages but not this one, not the one between me & you blinky. I just didn’t want to come back. I didn’t want to see you. I didn’t want to write. To open up. To keep talking. To talk about ‘IT’, C-Monkey, the never-ending operations, ‘frankenboob’ – all of it. Stupid, sodding, boring cancer, again and again and again. I was done. Simple.
But here I am. The truth is I missed you. I missed this, you blinking at me, me tapping absolute rubbish that only my Nan and mum will read. It’s peaceful, it’s you and me blinky. You and me together. Who cares what we talk about, it’s all nonsense anyway. So while I make amends maybe we should take some time to re-acquaint ourselves. You can tell me what’s been happening with all that blinking time you’ve had off and I’ll run through the various ups and downs of mine.
Ok so first things first, the boobs are looking good. I’m now up to five operations, yes five (oh the joy) because perfection, or anywhere close to it, is actually bloody difficult and seriously, as I’ve said before, boobs are very (!) complicated things. I really do wish they’d told me all this at the beginning. I mean two years on and I’m still having operations – that information would have been useful, AT THE BEGINNING! Talk about managing expectations. Jeez!
The last one was in February. It was the glamorously titled – fat transfer. I know what you’re thinking blinky, what a great opportunity to suck out all the wobbly chunk and achieve the svelte thigh gap legs I’ve always wanted, whilst also making Lefty nice and soft and a bit rounder. Sadly not. Not only was it bloody painful, resulting in me walking like John Wayne for two weeks in serious leg compression stockings (not the sexy kind) but I didn’t lose an inch from my thighs. Not an inch. How is that possible, have you seen my thighs?!
Couldn’t they have sucked out a little more, just to be kind. I mean come on, do a girl a favour, you’re taking it anyway, why not just take a little more and while you’re there feel free to take it from my ass, my tummy or what about those horrible wobbly arm bit – you can help yourself to that Mr. Go for it, suck it all out! But no. They took what they needed, left me with extremely bruised thighs and a slightly softer, rounder Leftie. The bugger is that this procedure doesn’t really take that well so I may need to have it a few times. Next time I’m going to try to bribe the surgeon to take some more fat. Or maybe I’ll drawn large circles on myself with a big purple felt tip pen, complete with helpful hints and arrows – suck fat here ‘0’. That should get their attention.
In other news I now have a nice man, who loves me, scars and all. Which has been incredible and also really weird. I think I spent so long worrying about what someone else would think I didn’t consider I’d be the one with the hangups. But I am. Turns out buys are pretty simple, I have boobs, he likes them. That’s it. Doesn’t care about anything else. So why do I? It’s a kicker and something I’m trying to work through, but I guess it’ll take time. Until then it’s wonderful having someone to boast my confidence and who makes me feel so cared for. In that respect I’m very lucky.
In other areas not so much. In fact I’d go so far as to say I’ve been really unfuckinglucky. Which I hope means I’m going to win the lottery. There really isn’t any other way to explain why I’ve had another pile of crap dumped on me, unless it’s because something amazing is just about to happen and karma doesn’t want me to get all big for my boots. So while I wait for my numbers to come up (note to self, must buy ticket) here’s the unlucky part….my health has taken another knock back.
C Monkey has a new friend to play with. Not another C Monkey thankfully but something that will undoubtedly play havoc with my life all over again. So I’ve been feeling pretty greedy when it comes to diseases. Yeap, why have one when you can have two! I am the BOGOF girl of illness. What a title.
I’m not sure how much I’m gonna tell you just yet blinky, I may keep this one to myself, or tell you all next time, who knows.
Now where’s my lottery ticket!