It’s Tuesday night and there is a little Karaoke bar blocks from my condo that I found this evening picking up kids from camp and daycare. Tuesday night karaoke in a dive! Seriously, my kind of place. Get up there and rock the mic like nobody’s business like a star, shake some hands afterward and be in the music moment.
Chemo (ac) just has a funny way of making that not so sexy. I don’t wear a wig, and the shave job I gave myself last week resembles the ass of a dog with mange more each day when I wake up. My pillow case feels like my other half shaved his face over my pillow the night before.
I’m tired, pale, and kind of have this lemon kissed yellow glow that is starting to show up on my skin. Not yellow enough to be jaundice, just a bit like I may be distantly related to an oompaloompa. I could smear layer upon layer of make up on my face, and hope for the best (blend, blend, blend!), but the hot flashes are bound to make my face melt.
A cocktail would be delicious! But something tells me oxycodone, lorazepam, marinol, and vodka don’t mix.
So, I sit.
I watch my dogs on the floor while I knit one of my five projects thanks to chemo brain. It’s like having ADD but not being able to remember what you were going to do or what you are already doing.
What was the title of this post?
I’m going to get ice cream.