I do eat the green ones. Deal with that blog reader.

I know. I'm writing words. The hell? I'm sure you all thought I had forgotten my alphabet. Trust me when I say I would rather vlog but as it's after midnight and I'm in bed, that would mean you'd see how completely forty-five years old I am and there is just no damn way I'm having any of that.

So I'm not sleeping for two reasons.

Number one - the little bastards outside have not yet come to grips with the fact that it's officially NOT the 4th of July any longer. It's my firm belief at this point they are just blowing shit up to piss me off.

Mission accomplished, Blackcat Firecracker Guy. I hate you more than Michael Jackson hated vaginas. (Forgive me Tito. I'm not myself right now.)

And reason number two I'm not sleeping - I'm planning my funeral.

So far I've only told a very limited number of people, but there is another friggin lump in my breast. I wasn't going to tell anyone because once I say it out loud, there it is again. All out loud and real and what not. Plus I didn't want to sound like a whiny, lumpy breasted, cry baby.

Which I am. Except for the crying part. Which I'm not. Because I almost never do. What with me being a bad ass and what not.

Which I totally am.

Sure, the lump is likely nothing more than me forgetting to chew my peanut M&M's again. It wouldn't surprise me a bit for the mammogram to show something yellow and delicious in my left girl. After all, they do melt in your mouth - not in your boobies.

But telling me that is NOT going to do anything but piss me the hell off, so don't say that to me. Don't email it; don't send me a greeting card with it; don't write me a poem about it; and in the name of all that is titillating; don't spray paint it on a cat and send it to me.

I do not enjoy cats and I especially don't care for message cats, what with their poorly written graffiti and aloof personalities.

Here's the thing, peeps. My factory-second brain goes right from lump to hospital to mastectomy to chemo to hair loss to yellow pieces of rubber around my wrist to Oprah to Mr. Man showing up at the morgue with my laptop because the only way you can get in it is with my DigitalPersona fingerprint and no way he's gonna let 'em plant me until he cracks my super secret code.

Truly, I've gone from zero to dead like 1000 times since I found this stupid thing. When Doctor felt me up for fun and profit last week, he made that, "Oh I'm sure it's nothing but we'd better check just in case" face - which looks eerily similar to that "Good night nurse! This chick has a peanut M&M in her boob!" face.

He told the nurse to get my mammogram scheduled STAT!

Well actually he didn't really say STAT, but it's a life long dream of mine to hear someone yell it in my presence, so I just made that part up to make me feel all flittery in my down there.

That was horrible and I'm sorry. I shouldn't be thinking sexy thoughts when I'm facing the possibility of an M&M biopsy - and/or death. That's just morbid, not to mention stupid. The last thing I wanna be doing right now is attracting undue attention from the Man upstairs for being a foul-mouthed woman with loose morals. And yes I'm well aware that he is omnipotent and omnipresent and omniawesome, but I've felt reasonably secure he's not seen me be bad recently as he's been distracted by all this Michael Jackson coverage.

Anyway, that's that and this is it and there you go. I'm back in boobie trouble again and I'm unhappy about the whole kit and caboodle.

I have no idea what that means honestly and I'm pretty sure it's not spelled correctly but you're not gonna correct me even if it's not because you feel sorry for me and my M&M breast. So there.

Suck it.

Dammit. Inappropriate and unintended sexiness again. I hope God is watching CNN right now.




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