Woman Gives Birth to Arnold Schwarzenegger's Love Tumour -- Details at 11
12.22.2002
It appears that not only my backside was chock-a-block stuffed with gunk. My brain runneth over as well. Transitional markers often do that to me, buoys in my mentally polluted backwaters. Stop treading water. Climb up. Think. Dry off. Stop leaking. Right. Dive back in again.
This has been a year of exceedingly high turnaround. If this year were a restaurant, I'd have pocketed some serious tax-free tip money, the way the tables kept clearing and filling, clearing and filling. It was a year of moult. I have sloughed off my seven-year leather carrying case and have emerged from its back pocket, pink and squishy. I may be slightly cranky and sore, and if you poke me I'm prone to bite or spring a leak, one of the two. However, a pink and squishy state leaves much room for new and improved scarring. Don't knock it; it toughens us.
On the topic of leaky brains, I just realised I have a momentous anniversary looming like a tsunami. February 11, 2003 will be the 10-year anniversary marking the emergence of a large amorphous blob from within my cerebrum, glistening and impressive, which was summarily tossed into a surgical waste container and incinerated into oblivion. The amorphous blob, not my cerebrum. Come to think of it, globby bits of my brain tumour, converted into wavy energy bits, could be powering your snowblower at this very moment.
In many ways, I will be turning 10 years old in February. My total memory storage could easily fit into a 10-year-old bin. I certainly don't remember much from a good decade of past life. Of course, those were my teens, so brain surgery may not be the sole reason for this significant lapse in memory. Cafeteria lunches and calculus homework could be the primary culprits instead.
Being only 10, I must admit I'm nonplussed at this hurry I find myself in to seek employment after 9 months of limping, non-employable sloth. Child labour is so 2001, darling. Ask Kathy Lee. And if you think this is bad -- hell, I was working at only 3 months old. In a bar, no less. Oh sure, on the surface I may have appeared an estrogenically activated female, but if those barflies had looked into my eyes they would have seen the scared child within. They would also have seen the right eyeball veer off to stare at the busboy while the left frisked their table for cunningly opened milkettes that wait to explode in an innocent barmaid's hand. Now certainly, this meant their own addled pates were forced to process a split-brained waitress, and this may well have traumatised them. Perhaps the shock was enough that my latent infancy went unnoticed, but I would have thought the terrycloth diapers and Bungie-Bye Bopper Swing� harness would have clued them in.
I survived. I thrived. I became middle management. It's to be expected. Brain injury is a prerequisite. I slipped into the giant cogs of routine monotony. Luckily, where my brain may not have known better, my bum did. I blew a disk, caved in my spinal cavity, and moved back to my childhood home after 15 years of absence to recuperate among family members I barely recognize and only hazily remember.
And here I am, surgically repaired, still leaking slightly, ready to move into my second adolescence, the first that I'll remember.
Does that mean I get to ask my dad to raise my allowance?
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