There's someone in my head, but it's not me...

OK, so I am not the most diligent when it comes to writing in this thing. Who the fuck cares whether I write or not, anyway. Consider that I started this blog for me and I write when I want.

No, I am not schizo, in case you were wondering, but at this point in cancer treatment I have to stop and marvel at all the chemicals frolicking through my blood. I marvel modern science and pity the fool who chooses not to partake of the benefits.

Or maybe I'm just mostly pissed at Melissa Etheridge. Ha.

After my last post, written in a fugue of procrastinatory musings...
I woke up early as I often do the morning of chemo. I dressed quickly and took the time for makeup and earrings. I even made oatmeal in the microwave, so that I would have something neutral in the event of nausea.

The interview went unbelievably well, like chatting with friend over hot drinks in better circumstances.

Afterwards, I slipped into bed and slicked my senses with kytril, zofran, pherergran, ambien, dexamethasone, and my newfound weapon, lexapro.

I occasionally tossed in a muscle relaxer or some marijuana.

And I went to bed for days.
I got back up.

Here it is three weeks and two days later. I really can't describe how I feel and maybe it's the Lexapro.

Like I said, someone's in my head and it's not me.
Ah, the marvels of modern science.
Shame on Melissa Etheridge.