Pain, Therapy and Lapin Gardening

So my cousin has posted an ultrasound of her baby on social networking sites. I hate when people do that. First of all it’s icky. Second of all it’s yucky. Third of all it’s tacky. My cousins keep doing this too, as if I want to see the strange sea creature/squirrel shaped parasites invading their abdomens.

Anyway, this ultrasound is really early. So early that it’s mostly space and just this tiny bean you kinda have to look for. There are a million people ‘oohing and aaahing’ in the comments, but I’m terribly tempted to ask her if she’s sure it’s not just a big fart. Trapped gas man, it’s a bitch.


Okay, so I’m in a fabulous mood, as if you can’t tell. I’m snarky and sarcastic because I’m in an exorbitant amount of pain and there isn’t really anything I can do about it. I can’t even sleep (it’s nearly three a.m.). It’s been about ten months of this, and after numerous tests and one serious week in November where the doctors told me to brace myself for cancer, all they can come up with are shrugs and theories: another mass, a random tiny hernia, or muscle damage. The only way to really tell one way or the other or to do anything about it is to have an exploratory surgery. Now I’m sorry, but I don’t want random surgery. I have many reasons for this, the most significant of which is I’m convinced that the surgeon will come up with nothing or with more shrugs and I will have endured all of this for nothing. Not to mention that the doctors will stop taking my complaining about the pain seriously.

This means that until I decide to do the surgery, or my insides explode, or this stuff takes some kind of turn, every few days I will experience different levels of pain in that area. Tonight (or this morning, rather), I’m hurting badly. I took a pill for the pain but it hasn’t even taken the edge off. So not worth it. It’s bad enough that I’ve been taken to the ER twice and both times I was sent home with drugs and more shrugs. Rhymey.

On top of all of that, things haven’t been working out so well for me. I’m completely skint, unemployed, and frankly unemployable at this point. Plus all of this other stuff is weighing on me. I wrote this long blag post (a two-parter!) about what’s been going on, but it’s so terribly personal that I’ve not posted it. Yet. There is always the possibility that I may egg up, especially when one considers I’ve not a lot of followers and only a few of those actually read my posts and only two or three of those actually know me. It’s basically about how I’ve taken up therapy and how I have a colourful history of despising therapy and everything that goes along with it, and why.

As for this therapy thing, I’m fairly certain that I’m failing at it. Seriously, I think that maybe I’m doing it wrong. I don’t really talk about anything, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to talk about. And I talk to the therapist about her problems too. I know there’s this period of time in the early days (which is where I’m at) where you talk to your therapist about stuff just so she can learn about you and know what you’re on about (to discover and exploit your weaknesses). But I am still rather unsure.


And in banal life stuffs, I grew lots of seedlings and plants for my garden, spent two days with Thunderball excavating and ravaging the very Earth, only to have this random apocalyptic downpour today eviscerate all our hard work. After all that, only about three plants of the hundreds we planted are still standing. I feel like the Charlie Brown of gardeners. Everything I touch get’s ruined.

But something exciting and interesting did occur in gardening. Our garden patch is about four feet by twenty feet. So in the soil turning and weeding phase on Saturday, Thunderball took one end and I the other and we worked our way towards the middle. About four feet in Thunderball suddenly stops her violent assault on the land and says “Uh, what is this?” She tosses over a wad of fluffy white fur, so naturally I ask: “Is something dead?” So she pokes at the spot with the garden fork and receives a terrified tiny squeal from the pile of furry earth. After she jumped away, we inspected the spot and discovered:

Bunny Seeds Germinated June 7 2014 01

Thunderball took this sessee shot.

Yes. That’s right. Babies. There were five or six tiny baby bunnies in there, all blind to the world. So now it’s like FUCK, we’re a mommy. So we’ve cordoned off that section of our garden (which will be devoted strictly to sunflowers), and recovered the nest we’d uncovered with an upturned bin. I keep periodically paranoiacally checking up on them, as I now feel responsible for having inadvertently uncovered their crèche, basically erecting the equivalent of a flashing neon arrow pointing right at them (hence the protective covering). Two days after finding them, I checked on them again only to find they were even closer to the surface with even less stuff covering them. I was amazed at how much they’d developed in only two days. They went from being blind and dark furred to being larger, open-eyed and more active and alert (although, clearly still too tiny to be on their own). Their little ears are still flat against their heads. According to some wildlife experts that means they are around 5-7 days old now.

I was so upset at seeing them almost completely exposed that I did some research to see if there was something else that we should have done or should be doing. But the wildlife rescue experts say that I did exactly the right thing, covering them back up and putting the bin over them. Now we just have to hope that they survive to adulthood despite living in a backyard that is full of raccoons and skunks and cats (That Cat and That Other Cat have both been sighted recently), not to mention our dog.

Plus they are so adorable one wants to take them in and love them forever (or at least until they reach their forever), but every wildlife place is like NO YOU CANNOT KEEP THEM. Shut up! You can’t tell me what to do! I am a paranoid mama bunny, hopped up on painkillers and out for blood! I do what I want!

“There is love in holding. And there is love in letting go.” – Elizabeth Berg, The Year of Pleasures

And there is love in mauling a Animal Control officer. Just saying.




Hamster Cardiology, Rabbit Euthenasia and Synthetic Pain Management


When I was a kid, somewhere between the ages of 8 and 10, I performed surgery on a hamster. I removed worms from its pericardium, and put them on a slide.
I still have the slide.

Now, dear reader, I suspect you have some questions. I mean, that first line is upsetting in itself. And yet, not too surprising; little kids are known to do such things. They torture bugs: burning ants, dissecting beetles, and tearing the wings off of flies. They take apart little things like frogs and minnows. All of this of course is done generally out of curiosity, and only occasionally out of psychopathy. Most little kids don’t even get the significance of their actions and feel that perhaps they can glue the little things back together and everything will be okay.

So that last bit there about pericardia and slides must have really thrown you.

Would it help if I mentioned the hamster was part of a laboratory trial, and the laboratory in question was at Harvard University, and that the entire procedure – from sedating the little guy (which I remember to this day as being a strange combination of horrifying and cute) to the surgery and subsequent staining of the slide sample was all done under the supervision of one of the head researchers in the trial?

What was I doing in a major experimental research laboratory after hours performing life saving surgery on a cute hamster? I DON’T KNOW.

Well, I sort of know, but it’s not really important. What is important is that this really happened and it would go on to support a long held belief in my family that by now I would be a doctor or a veterinarian and I’d be successful and happy and at the very least smart and stable. Well aren’t I a colossal disappointment?

I think however, the most significant thing about this particular childhood incident is the fact that whenever I replay events in my mind, I imagine that the hamster in question is clothed. I believe this has everything to do with how it reacted when it was going under sedation: it rose up on two legs, then sunk down into a very human-like sitting position – on it’s rump with it’s little back legs stuck out straight in front of it and it’s tail sticking up in the back. Its jaw dropped open in a dumbfounded sort of way, its tail drooping, before finally falling onto its back – hind legs in the air.

Despite how human and adorable my rodent patient, I had no trouble going through with the procedure. I followed every direction, did not get ‘grossed out’, and later I found the worms on the slide endlessly fascinating. I was remote, practical, professional and clinical. And I was still in primary school.

So fast forward some decades later to last summer, when I woke to find an amazingly horrific sight: my ancient rabbit (we suspect him to have been at least fourteen earth years in age), Killer, was in a condition so awful I can’t say here what it was. Let’s just say that it was so disgusting that when I FREAKED THE FUCK OUT and ran for help NO ONE BELIEVED ME. It was so unimaginably awful all I could keep saying was “Why is he still alive?”

This prompted the urgent and immediate necessity to put him out of his misery. And I, as the only person in the house not in cowardly denial, was the obvious one tasked to do it. So I tried and found that I couldn’t; I just couldn’t. I don’t know why exactly. It needed to be done, it was the merciful thing to do, and I knew this. I cried and I vomited and then I cried and vomited some more but I couldn’t do it. I even went so far as to try and poison him with prescription painkillers but (not surprisingly) he wouldn’t drink or eat anything. I didn’t know what to do.

I often wonder what happened to me between then and now – between hamster and bunny – that made me change. Especially when you consider how absolutely shitty life has been to me. I mean, why am I suddenly kinder and not a serial killer? Where did I go wrong? Why couldn’t that clinical, in control reserve that allowed me to cut into a hamster as a child help me now? I mean, I call it up more often then you’d think. So why, when I needed it the most did it fail me?

When bad shit happens I’m usually the only one in the room with their head on straight. Be it driving somewhere with Mum when lost, calling 911 when someone needs emergency care (and riding in the ambulance), taking everyone’s shit when someone dies – I’m the one who keeps everything together. And seeing as I have an awesome case of panic disorder, this is really saying something.

I keep finding myself wishing I could tap into that clinical 8-to-10-year-olds’ magical detachment. I think these days it would really help.

Ultimately BB put Killer down, and it’s been a few weeks since my last nightmare about it. But I can’t help but wonder and question, all the time, why I was so weak.


I have to take vicodin more often. It makes me write the BEST blag posts ever. Really.

Yeah, so I’m on painkillers. WOOO! Or, if you’re me: woo.
I hate being on drugs. I don’t like feeling out of control of my brain – understandable, especially when you consider it’s all I’ve really got going for me.

Last Friday I spent in the ER at a not-so-local local hospital, and after a few hours of agony where they determined I was not in fact a drug-seeker, they gave me an intravenous cocktail of painkillers and antiemetics which was just… awful. Granted, it dropped my pain level from a 7 to a 5 and at one point a 4.

This is the World's Most Accurate Pain Chart. Possibly the ONLY accurate pain chart. It was created by Allie Brosh. (Please don't sue me.)

I borrowed this from Allie Brosh (please don’t sue me). It is the World’s Most Accurate Pain Chart. Possibly the ONLY accurate pain chart.

But it also did a few awesomely shite things like give me mushmouth and make me a bastion of profundity, dropping such gems as: “I hate my hair now. It’s not fair that my hair can’t be purple anymore.” (Tear slips down cheek).

When they put it in the IV, and then into me, it HURT. And I mean, it was like suddenly hot lead was being poured through my arm, across my shoulders, out my other arm and down through my head into my neck. It physically felt as though a great hot weight was suddenly forcing me down. And the taste in the back of my throat was awful.

After they sent me home I spent the night having crazy fucking vivid dreams and hallucinations. I literally could not tell awake from asleep, and I couldn’t do anything about it but ride it out. This resulted in my not taking ANYTHING for the crazy pain – that is nowhere near resolved – for the next few days. Not an unreasonable reaction under the circumstances.

Unfortunately I can’t keep up the pain side of things, and have succumbed to the prescription I was sent home with.
Right now I’m just trying to head the pain off at the pass until some better plan arises. I am taking the ‘conquering a migraine approach’.

So that’s been fun…

Typewriters and Canscer Scares

So I have somehow inherited (if this is the proper word for it) the typewriter of a beloved and popular uncle. By inherited I mean, I posted on Facebook how I wished I had a proper, old-school manual typewriter (as opposed to my much beloved electric Smith-Corona) and a cousin told me that he wanted to give me my uncles’ typewriter which was rescued from the rubbish when they cleaned out his house after he moved away from the old neighborhood.

I don’t know much about the typewriter, other than my uncle loved it. He was a letter writer apparently, and he took very good care of the instrument while it was of interest to him.

Sufficed to say, although the typewriter I had in mind was a turn of the century Remington, I am much obliged for this specimen. With every tap of the keys my Smith-Corona slams the hammer against the paper with enough force to pierce it – and indeed on occasion it has. It is an angry thing and quite appropriate for my artistic purposes. Am curious to see how I will fair with this new noise; it seems a might bit tamer than the bitter THWACK! of my old electric. Now all I need is ribbon and I should be all set. I am looking forward to penning another chapter or short story on it in the future.

Typewriters of Famous Writers

Once I have done something to facilitate the accessibility of mine hovel (to some degree of efficiency) I shall commence with the disparate and fictitious nonsense such is my literary career. Which are just fancy words for ‘once I get all my ducks in a row, I shall shoot them’.  Every time I manage to get some of the crazy out of my head and on paper all I get is a stomach ache for my reward. I have a few people I force to read my crap and ask for advice, but I don’t know. Not that I don’t trust them, it’s just maybe I need a wider sample? Or better yet – no sample at all?

In other news, probably more pressing, my surgical endeavors were successful. Thus far at least. Phil has been removed and is living somewhere off the grid. My foot has a badass scar, and as we all know, chicks and hotties dig scars, so perhaps this will all work out in my favour one of these days. I am healing nicely, the stitches, bandages and the boot (I had to tromp about in a boot of doom and keep my foot otherwise elevated) came off after three weeks.

The biopsy revealed no canscer – Phil was just a freeloading asshole. I had hoped at least for teeth and some hair, just for fun, but nope. The nerves in the area will be a bit raw for a while, and I have to keep an eye out for unusual colorations or swelling, but otherwise I was sent away from podiatry with a clean bill of health. So huzzah for me.

Like I have mentioned before, this is not my first cancer scare. This is like, my fourth in the last decade. So, although I should be more upset that this keeps happening, there is nothing more I can do. I eat crazy healthy, I even try to grow my own non GMO food. I try to exercise. It’s just how it is I guess.

In fact, the day after the stitches came out I had my annual intestinal probe. They found another giant adenoma, like they did during my first cancer scare. With my intestinal disorder I have a seriously elevated risk of colon and other cancers of the digestive tract. The first time was like Defcon Five around here, everyone in a panic, me keeping everyone together. Then I got a big speech from the gastro-doc informing me that although I don’t have cancer now, the polyps he removed were an early form of cancer. He told me I basically had stage zero cancer and that there wasn’t much that they could do other than be more vigilant. So my colonoscopies went from every three years to annually, with intermittent testing in between, and my cancer risk has gone from ‘elevated’ to one-in-three or one-in-two chances of getting ill.

So that’s going to be fun.

My biggest issue with getting sick is everyone else around me; these things freak everyone out more than me. So if it seemed that I was nonchalant about Phil I wasn’t trying to be coy; I was just trying to downplay it and see how things turned out before reacting. Or overreacting, rather. My family is populated with amazing, giving people. But it’s also populated with worriers – as in ‘worry-myself-sick’ worriers – and people who make other people’s misfortunes their own personal tragedies. Plus, since the dawn of e-mail and Facebook the rumour mill is alive and well and surprisingly even more ill-informed than ever.

So my colon is clean – yet angry, and my foot is sore but healing.

I didn’t get to go to Blick after all, because I am TOO BROKE, but I did manage a copy of The Ice Palace by Tarjei Vesaas for one of my classes. It was really good and worth it. I was surprised and not surprised at the same time that my library didn’t carry it, and that in fact none of the libraries in this part of my STATE had it. So maybe when I am through with it I may donate it. Maybe.

I am a selfish bitch.

The Sad Truth About Vampirism (and Eating Babies) Part II

Here comes part two, you can unbait your breath now:

Turns out I had little to no iron in my blood. Worse than that, my ferritin levels were almost nonexistent. Ferritin is the stuff that keeps the iron in your blood so your body doesn’t flush it out. It holds onto it and then releases it as you need it. Your average levels are between 180 and 250. Mine were 3. I asked the doctor if she knew where exactly these three ferritin were so I could keep an eye on them, keep them safe, but she didn’t find it funny. She already had a haematologist lined up to see me in a few days, so I made the appropriate arrangements and got out of her way.

That night Thunderball, BB, Mum and I went to Chunky’s and saw the Muppets. (Badass). On the long ride home we decided that the only solution to my blood problem – logically – was to turn to vampirism. I was mostly there already – being nocturnal and hyper intelligent and everything. (Hear that? That’s the sound of me tooting my own horn.) I could easily maintain my vegetarian cred just by keeping people on tap and not killing them. We also decided that instead of picking off random people on the street (nothing like a night ride through Dracut and Lowell to put you off eating people) it would be in my best interest to eat babies. Yeah, I know, I know, tiny bones and stringy. But I’m just going to hit them up for a few ounces here and there and not consume them whole. Or even kill them. Thus I lessen my risk of contracting something more insidious than what I may already have and retain eternal youth and beauty (you can’t get any younger blood than baby blood).  Not a bad plan, really.

The following week was all Christmas preparations.  Thunderball and I went insane and made everyone cookies in lieu of cash or prize gifts. (We’s broke, yo). I was really cold and tired with no appetite, but I was alright. Until I started passing out. Mixing dough in mixer. SUGAR EVERYWHERE. The next morning I wake to Mum shouting at me about the SUGAR EVERYWHERE. Then I explained, you know, ‘Sorry, I was sort of feeling weird when I tried cleaning it up after losing consciousness. I’m sorry I didn’t get it all.’ That was followed by an emergency GP visit, where she explained to me the gravity of my situation. My blood was not able to oxygenate properly, my blood pressure was dangerously low and she was considering hospitalization. I could potentially die. I was ordered to stay off my feet until the haematologists appointment and if anything else happened to go to the ER. I told her if I had to go to the one with Clooney I wanted no part of it. I seen what they do. Then I told her not to worry, there was a baby in her waiting area and I had thought to bring a straw.

The haematologists had other ideas about my infant consumption. They scheduled a series of infusions (of ferritin, red cells and a drip) to begin immediately which they felt would fix the problem. They drew more blood and told me that I had nothing to worry about, that this was most likely a onetime thing and a little fusing would do the trick. They began the treatments right there in the office.  If you are squeamish you might want to skip this next bit. (Of course I say this after the straws and babies part.)

BB was there with me for the first treatment and all the ones that followed. I get sick a lot, so people, especially BB, tend to ignore it or just think I’m exaggerating. It gets old, I know. However this time, with the urgency and the test results, the more extensive testing and then the infusion procedure itself, he got really freaked. Suddenly this is really serious. Basically what they do is they put you on an I.V. with a saline bag and magical red cells in another bag and let that go. When the red cells are gone they give you the ferritin in a ‘push’ which is injected slowly in to the line via a big GIANT syringe. (Every time they bring it out all I hear is Melora Creager whispering ‘a 20 gallon brass syringe’…). When they were preparing it across the room BB says “It could be worse. You could be getting THAT.” And then of course they brought it right over to me. It’s really really thick, this infusion, so they have to push it slowly and let the I.V. dilute it. I learned quickly over the next two weeks (and six treatments) which nurses to watch out for and which to root for. One is really really bad at finding veins and would tear me up every time. At one point BB went and insisted on a different nurse and hasn’t let that one near me since. Another nurse is this incredibly racist Irish woman who pushes too fast so it is amazingly painful. (If you ever hear that I’ve had a stroke it’s because of her).

The haematologists insisted that most everybody who gets this treatment feels better immediately, but I didn’t. Rather, I got really really sick. Before I was just cold and exhausted and randomly unconscious, but now I was a wreck. Vomiting and nausea. It was a nearly immediate reaction. I was lucky that my first treatment was the Friday before Christmas, because on the following Monday I ended my second treatment with a head to toe rash. Literally. My scalp, all over my face, up my arms, everywhere. They began to start the treatments with a shot of Benadryl which cleared it up a little, but mostly made me barely conscious enough for BB to get me back into the car. During off days of treatment I was unable to get out of bed and I hurt in a strange exhausted way – as if I wrestled with the steamroller before it ran me over. It was awful, and I didn’t want to complain, especially considering that the oncology and hematology departments are the same building and the transfusions, infusions and chemotherapy treatments all take place in one big open room. I literally see much worse things being put into people every time I’m there. So I’d sit there next to a garbage barrel – for puketastic fun times – for about an hour and try to act like it wasn’t bothering me.  (By the way, those little pink kidney-shaped bowl things are for chumps. Real women puke in barrels.)

“He’s just begging for the Juice Fusion!”

It was supposed to be over after that one session of six treatments. Instead it’s happened again, and it keeps happening. Turns out, when I joked about having vampirism I wasn’t too far off. I’ll be dependent upon transfusions and infusions for the rest of my life. I have some kind of anemia in which my body makes too little ferritin, and then my immune system (shocker) tries to get rid of what’s left. I get so sick during the treatments because my body is trying to reject it. That’s why I don’t respond to it like everyone else.  After the last visit the haematologist said I can look forward to getting fused to the juice every three months, six if I’m lucky. That’s two to two-and-a-half weeks every three to six months where I will be generally incapacitated. Yea, me.

So basically being a vampire entails being dependent upon human blood and human blood components.  Which we already knew. But it also entails plaque psoriasis of the noggin (cradle cap! fast forward to 5:04) and possibly irreversible hair loss, rash, oxygen deprivation, vomiting, constant chill, and a ghastly pallor. And it means having a really high chance of getting blood cancers. It means having track marks for weeks on end but without the heroin chic physique. It means possibly bleeding to death during your period (that’s menstruation).  It possibly causes debilitating vertigo and migraines… It includes being manhandled by creepy nurses who don’t mind telling you a few things about the blacks and the gays as they stab you repeatedly and make you bleed. There is absolutely no romance.  That’s only in movies for gullible teen girls (and gay teen boys. I’m a professional hag, so I can speak to this.). It also doesn’t help with any embarrassing I.V. phobia (not needles, tubes). You’d think it would, but no.

Also, being a vampire gives you a completely new perspective on blood donation. I’ve always been for it and encouraging of it, but now I think that it’s more important because I need it. I need your blood. Give it to me. (Sarcasm!) More importantly, lots of other people need it. Lots of people, like me, find out they have some weird anemia, or have accidents, or have cancers and find themselves in that chair. In fact, according to the American Red Cross about 44,000 blood donations are needed every day – that’s a need for one donation every two seconds. So next time you see a donation truck in front of your work or school or concert (Amanda Fucking Palmer, indeed), go for it. You can also donate blood for someone specific or even to yourself, strange but true. So go for it. Twenty minutes can save someone’s life. And you’ll get juice and a cookie! (and even a sticker). And a swell mug and a t-shirt for those who donate frequently. Make it a sport, go with a group of your friends and try to out donate each other in a year. Imagine the Red Cross loot you’ll score – you’ll be the envy of all!

I hope you’ve enjoyed this epic two page whine and have now learned a thing or two about vampires and blood donation.
And why I’m so annoying.
I’m cold people. And hungry. For your blood.

Oh and my Cyborg has corrected me: babies are tender and not stringy. Sorry.

My BFF and Fat Death of the Endless (or How I Plan to Embarrass Myself This Hallowe’en)

I’m sorta erg, trying write a blog that isn’t whiney or annoying or what not. Then I fear I might be utterly incapable of being either, so I say fuck it, let’s roll.

The first weekend in October I have a Hallowe’en themed birthday party for my cousin Thomas’ big 0-6. Thomas is my BFF. We became BFFs one day during a visit a few years ago, when he said: “Boy, you’re really fat” to me, in his blunt way, and I came right back with “Yeah? Well you have a really big head.” (Which he does. Seriously. I’m an adult and his head size is waaaay bigger than mine.) He responded to this by looking at me thoughtfully and nodding his head as if to say “touché”.  Since then we’ve been like this [crosses fingers]. (A relationship built on a common respect for honesty.) My BFF is a unique individual. He was born 45, and is going through life as if he’s trying to learn how to be a little kid. Like he’s some sort of reverse Pinocchio who has suddenly realized that he’s a real boy after all and not made of wood. Even as a baby he was serious, scrupulous and completely OCD – and little has changed. Last year they asked me to try and talk him into liking the thought of going to school for the first time. He argued me at every point, and told everyone that he “feels that it really isn’t necessary.” He really talks like that.

My BFF also has the world’s worst allergies – all of them at once. Seriously. You name it he’s allergic to it. I’m surprised he doesn’t run on positrons like DATA (although I don’t think he can eat bananas). So he requested that I make “those awesome candy apples from that party with the disco ball” by which he means my brother’s ‘wedding’.  The wedding was last November and he’s been asking on a regular basis to have them at his birthday, so I must deliver. He is, after all, my BFF. (Plus I like that there is one thing he likes that I can make for him and he won’t die eating it.) So I am making about thirty of those. Which isn’t a problem. I’m good at making candy, it is fun and I don’t eat it, so there you go. I’ll probably make him a bunch of skull pops too.

The problem is that it’s a costume party, and as much as I love them, I also hate them because as a fatty I never get to be who I want to be. BB will be going as the prerequisite gorilla. Thunderball will be going as Princess Leia or a Sith, or both, or she’ll wear the extra gorilla suit (because every family has at least two gorilla suits, right?) and maybe change later into another costume. Last year I went marked up as though I had just witnessed The Silence. I kept a little pencil on me and continuously marked myself up throughout the party. Pretty much no one got it until my friend’s eight year old son saw me, pointed and said “Doctor Who”. Then I applauded his parentage.

This year I wanted to go as Henry Killinger, which I could probably pull off. But this summer was really shitty for me, and I was going to make the mask and slippers but had forgotten (not to mention I still have no access to my studio or supplies) so that’s out. I’ve always wanted to go as Death from Sandman, but I’m too fat, whatever. So you know, last night I’m having trouble managing the pain, walking around the house and trying to apply ice to my intestines (don’t be weird), when I say “fuck it”, go to the bathroom mirror, find my only makeup (a black pencil from LAST Hallowe’en) and do my face up in full Death goth glory. And you know what? I looked fukking awesome. So this year people, Death is gonna be a FATTY. I don’t care anymore. If someone has a problem or wants to post me as a joke on Twitter or shit go right ahead. It’s not my fault that Gaiman got her weight wrong in the novels…

This is Death of the Endless. Just undernourished.

And then next year I’m going as Slave Leia.
Okay, maybe not.