2003-08-04 - 5:11 p.m.
dear diary,
meh. i felt like writing a semi-honest unfunny yet scathingly witty entry about actual real live fears.
i'm going under the knife tomorrow, johnny.
i might not make it back.
stay golden.
the operation is three hours long and if i live through it i can come out of my anastheised state and say "thank god for sex changes."
only because i'm having a breast reduction done and if i wake up with a penis there is gonna be some hell to pay. and, thank.
is it standard procedure to schedule surgeries at such ungodly hours? [see: 5am] have you ever had surgery, diary? the last surgery i had was for my back, and they wheeled me into the operating room and it was about 35 degrees. the nurse with the michael jackson mask over her face told me that it was hard for bacteria to survive in such cold temperatures.
i have small veins. invisible even. it takes 1000 minutes just to get an iv into me. they usually have to use the kid-friendly needles. i'm weak. i'm girlish. squirrelish. curlish. etc.
listen, diary. if i don't make it through tomorrow's operation, i want you to take custody of the kids. you can have my car, and my beautiful trailor home, and my crack pipe.
i'll never forget those indian summers we spent together, diary. we would sit on the porch and you would rub my calves while i drank all of your generic beers and seduced the neighborhood pool boy who i later found out was your son through a second marriage and i never did tell you about that abortion i had, right?
oh man i'm gonna be so bummed if i seriously die tomorrow. like, this will be way worse than that one time when i found out i had full blown aids and a week to live.
ground control? this is major tom.
tell my wife i love her very much.
[she knows]