- This is entry 694, which means that after writing six more entries, I will be out of the 600s. I hate the number six, and my obsessive side, which I prefer to envision as an ugly and nagging troll of a homunculus, has been suffering a facial tic throughout the last 95 entries.
- It is annoying me that after this entry there will be SIX more to write.
- This obsession with the number six is likely a misdirection of my anxiety about my LEEP procedure (Loop Electrosurgical Excision Procedure) on Wednesday morning.
- Did you know that sexual intercourse should be avoided for three weeks after a LEEP? Fecking hell.
- Today, though, I am focusing on ways to make my home environment pleasant, so that on Wednesday, when I drag myself home from the hospital, hoping that I'm not the one in ten who is blessed with post-surgical hemmoraging, I can just kick back, take pain meds, and watch bad afternoon television from my bed.
- Ooh, maybe I will even liveblog Oprah, she who aggravates me so. If she tongue-kisses the ass of celebrity or gives tons of unnecessary free crap away to makeover fresh audience members or tells people how brave they are for doing what any ethical person would do, she'll just be making it easy for me.
- Where am I going with this? Right. I am going to be productive and clean the apartment, pick up some easy-to-prepare comfort food, change all the cat litter, and wash the cat hair out of the bedding.
- All of those activities listed in the above point will happen right after I finish a bodum full of coffee, manage to wrench my butt from this chair, and get up the energy to stand in the shower for a whole seven minutes. It could happen.
- No, it really could.
- But first, I have to kick myself for complaining about cancer that I may or may not have when someone who knows it all too well may have a recurrence of it and is going under the knife to find out. Go visit Citizen of the Month and lend Sophia your support.
- I'm nervous anyway. My hands won't stay still. I have to type or eat or smoke to keep them busy, because if they are busy, then I am occupied with real things aside from fear of what may or may not be cancer on a cervix to which I have no attachment.
- Perhaps it is because I have been reading stories along the lines of Fluid Pudding's birth stories and TB's very recent birthing experience that I was dreaming last night that I was having my pubic hair completely shaved off. Whoever was doing it for me was doing an extremely thorough job. I looked like a newborn.
Each successive dream following it had some part of me being shaved: armpits, legs, my head. When the clippers were brought to my head, the idea was to have a guard on them so that I would still have an inch of hair. The guard fell off the clippers, and I was shorn to the skin. Just before I woke up, I had a dream in which I was completely glabrous.
When I woke up a couple of hours ago, I had a strong urge to break out the hair shaver and give myself a good going over, because I was mostly bald for three years once and never felt better, but I held off. Why? Because I work in a professional office and have a boss who knows that I've gone on brain medication. I wouldn't mind some extra time off, but I would like it to be paid time off like a vacation and not paid time off like unemployment cheques.
- So, I am going to settle for a soak in the bath with a pumice stone and then a shower.
- I am also going to brush my teeth in the shower, because I have found that when I do that, all my personal cleaning is done at once, and I get to have that thoroughly wet-from-the-shower feeling along with the minty-fresh-mouth feeling. It's twice as satisfying, and you also don't have to worry about getting toothpaste on your shirt.
- Go look at the new videos and the new links I've posted. And then, GO VOTE FOR ME if you have not already. The voting links are at the top of this column.
- I have got to go get this bathing thing underway. Seriously. I started this list at 9 a.m., and it's now noon.
- But before I go, I have a question for you: why am I fine with not shaving my legs at all until I know that I have put my feet up in stirrups for a gynecologist? I am very sure that she has seen all kinds of ladies, including the back-to-nature types who are as sasquatchy as I am, but I think of my hairy legs looking all the more stumpy and hairy for sticking out between my ankle socks and a backless hospital gown, and I just want the hair gone. I don't want to have to think about the gynecologist's ears being so close and intimate with my pasty, stovepiped, hirsuteness.
- Do you like my rooster?