one year ago, my torso consisted of two elongated crooked scars (where my boobs were), an ugly, pulsating port scar which turned bright red and itched whenever I wore synthetic fibers, and a large, very extended white flabby belly (thanks to the 'roids and overnight menopause).
while i still look pretty disgusting naked, i did have the TRAM flap last summer. i finally have accepted that i'm not going to die next week of cancer (i think i'll get more notice than that) - and it probably isn't necessary to carry around this "just about ready to start decomposing" aura.
so i decided to buy some new clothes. i've been wearing the same clothes that i had pre-cancer (2006), which don't fit right. after a pregnancy rumor (why the baggy clothes?? um, i had a hysterectomy. fuck off) -- and a couple of close calls with pants not fitting right (low-rise jeans and numb belly are not a good combo), i finally decided to buy new clothes. and this time, not for a funeral.
i am a size 10! a 10? get the fuck out! and in some pants, a 10P? fuck your fascist beauty standards and all, but that is a-fucking-mazing. i love plastic surgery. everyone should have it.
and then i went and cried in front of the 3-way mirror at the mall. i'm such a pussy.
