Cancer, cockroaches, and a stench.
I was 12 when the doctors told my parents I had cancer. How fucking rude is that?
I was 12 when the doctors told my parents I had cancer. How fucking rude is that?
Could you imagine being a kid one minute and the next, some dude in scrubs is explaining white blood cells and chemo therapy and telling you that you can’t go to the movies or church.
I was cool with the no church thing, I sinned my little ass off, anyway.
Cancer and puberty at the same time is a joke. You’re simultaneously having your body pumped with drugs (the not fun ones) and losing your hair while wondering if your crush notices the Maxi-pad print in your Mudd jeans.
Oh wait, my period came after chemo. Let me retrace my steps; cancer and puberty go hand in hand.
My wig was straight. My real hair was curly Sue. Everyone was fooled.
Fuck you chemo, I win.
There was one time when I was working at the hotel and a man came in to ask about how much the rates were.
He told me he used to stay with us and that he vowed to never come back again, yet here he was in the lobby. I asked him why he swore us off and he told me that “the guest above him started with the word cock…” I nodded my head empathetically and thought to myself “this is the South you fucking idiot, cockroaches are everywhere.”
His phone screen was unlocked and facing me.
I could see he was texting with someone named Tracy and she was sending him pictures of her naked body, tattoos splayed across her back as she crouched in a seductive position.
He drove away in an Audi. Good for you, Tracy.
I woke up to this morning to my husband tearing the snack closet apart. “Something smells in here.” He said hastily.
Something probably died I thought through crusted eyes and a sleepy swollen face.
That was my first thought of the day.
It wasn’t death, it was just potatoes.
