Twump Twump

Twenty days left for wet T-shirt contests and scandalous displays of cleavage.

Twenty more days of Titties. Five words. Fucking mouthful. Pun intended.

Bra. Off.

Breasts. Farewell.

Game. On.

On New Years Eve, I am scheduled for a double mastectomy. That is so trippy to read.

But, oh, wait.

I am, also, slamming head first, with no helmet (like I ever had one), into menopause. Which, honestly, I wasn't sure existed. Well. It does.I am pissed it does. So, I cry. And that pisses me off. In the part of my head where no one can hear, I am thinking about lollygagging naked, nothing on, in the depths of snow...just to cool down. I mean. It's Hot. Then, it's funny. Shit..I might like you today. Hate you tomorrow. Make love the next. Get used to it.

Mostly, I am verklempt.

I bet you want to come over. Oh, Wait, you can’t. Fuck this year.

2020 is the gargantuan goiter on the tail of 2019. I had a hard time separating them. And, quite honestly, I ended 2018 with a high salute, and then a fence…that I drove thru.

I think I took the hits well, before I didn’t. I slipped into a surreal struggle with family relationships, the realization of what I was confronting (and always will) hollowed me. Great timing for cocaine to show up. But, I am not stupid, not for long anyway.

And so I felt, and I fought, and I am alive. Becoming powerful is sexy. It also can be a real struggle. The reward was worth the ridicule, gossip and momentary “fuck its” I suffered. I have spent more positive and fulfilling moments of pure love and connection with my incredible son. I love that man, he is fucking amazing.

(And...begin)

I have decided that the removal of cancer from my body must be fueled with my minds eye. My choices, my meals, my interactions, my friends, my personal relationship, my very future is built by no one but me. Ya, I just figured that out. Well, I figured I wasn’t living my best me by being confused, tormented and persecuted by those closest to me. This is how I feel. I slowly yet, persistently, changed. Doing the best I can anyway.

My purpose, My parenting, and My journey is mine. Do not tell me how to walk it. Love how I walk, sometimes slow, sometimes sassy, sometimes just wrong, sometimes unbelievable. Walk with me, I’ll hold your hand. And I am learning how to hold my heart. I can't wait to share.

The worst races to run are the ones with no finish line. I can’t turn around. I can change course. I can heal, love and Build Beautiful. That makes me smile. Eventually, when I am deeper in love with all of me, and stronger than I have been as of late, I am going to bring sexy back with some bounce, but, for now, I sit in my truth as it shifts course to a road less traveled.

Every gosh darn breast hosts a woman on a journey. Celebrate in the uniqueness of that. It's each women's journey that truly becomes a turn on with age (we all know the tits go south). You can not augment the story of your life with a botoxed brain or a liposuctioned memory. I'd like to keep running...interesting I am more passionate in its benefit to my mind than my physical attractiveness. I just grew up a little bit in my mouth. My journey continues...

I can't see the finish line, but there is wonderful Aid Stations along the course.