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kayla dee

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Teh Tit [ May 15, 2007 · 8:37am]
[ mood | scared ]

From the time of its discovery over a year ago the fact that there is a lump occupying my right breast has been something I've come to accept. Its mere presence has been forgotten and then, upon showering or summat, remembered again. Never something that plagues my mind so to speak, nothing I've lost any sleep over or particularly fretted; it's just been there. "There we go, scrub the armpit and moving on to the chest... what's this? Lumpy! There you are, you old scoundrel - how the devil are you? Still located directly behind the nipple, I see... or feel, rather. Righto, then, off to loofa tummy now..."

But now as I grow nearer to parting with it I've built up a great deal of disdain for the silent intruder. As if suddenly I view it as a personal attack on my femininity. The realization that one of the things that society, not to mention my own observations in the difference between male and female anatomy, have made sure I appreciate as the most externally obvious example of my womanhood - my breasts - will have to be operated upon and possibly altered is now entirely offensive. How dare you, uninvited mass, take up residence in a place specifically assigned to and identified by my gender.

The surgery itself has become something I'm dreading and will be participating in with the greatest of hesitance and legal amount of drugs possible. Voicing my concerns on the matter is met with understanding nods, reassuring advice, and other gestures meant to ease the mind which I'm so horribly inexperienced with receiving they nearly have the opposite effect. Just not used to people relating to my fears and attempting to comfort me about them; most, you see see, are illogical to my peers and often are hard for another individual to fully grasp. Explaining social anxiety, for instance, to someone who has never hidden in a bathroom stall merely to avoid the interaction that having lab partners in Chemistry implies is more often than not a lost cause. "So, yeah? It's alright that I'm frightened of this, then? What about the overfriendly cashier in the gas station - be afraid of 'im? No? Got it. Being slit open with a scalpel while unconscious is an acceptable fear, Bob the checkout guy isn't. Check and check."

Still, though, I'm going to inquire if I may have the lump to preserve in a jar once removed. For posterity, you know. I need a good conversation starter to keep on the coffee table. Also I've set a goal to see if I can't get my doctor, the flamboyantly gay Dr. Glass, to admit that he's gon' cut a bitch.

I'm scheduled to go under tomorrow, Wednesday at 10am. Then later that day I'm to have the surgery. Doh!

-Kayla Dee


On Wishes and Wonderous Abilities [ March 27, 2007 · 12:24am]
[ mood | mellow ]

Tonight at 11:11 I found myself wishing for the ability to have my words drip out of my lips.

To fully grasp this statement you must understand two things: firstly, every opportunity I get (usually twice a day) I wish on a digital clock when it hits 11:11. Perhaps it's the pure aesthetically pleasing symmetry of the time on the face of a microwave or in the corner of my computer that catches my eye when glancing which leads me to believe that wish-making is appropriate, I'm not really sure how I justify it in my mind. Usually wishes are reserved for strictly spectacular and highly rare occasions that allow for such a marvelous thing as the granting of a heart's desire - such as the discovery of an ancient lamp curiously shaped like a gravy dish or the random passing of a fountain when you just so happen to have a spare penny in your pocket (nothing deliberate, mind you, you can't set out to make a wish) But out of all the thousands of minute/hour combinations in the day, is it not fantastic that only two times can you witness the event of four evenly spaced parallel lines? Well I sure as fucking hell should think so.

Secondly, the aforementioned ability is only truly done by a fraction of a decimal of a percent of the population. Think about it: when was the last time you saw someone, anyone (though it's more commonly a moderately attractive woman) utter something so sensually and/or disdainfully that you could mentally envision their articulated words pouring from their mouth? In all honesty I've only witnessed such awe-inspiring, passionate verbalization from movie starlet's of black and white era films and never in person. If I were to observe it in person I'd probably slap the person smartly across their face with the white leather glove I carry in my purse for such an offense just out of pure jealousy. "How dare you master such a skill before I! I who took the time to meticulously type out in an obscenely lengthy blog what reverence I bare for such a talent! Good day, sir! I said good day!"

Right. So there's that... just something to put in your pipe and puff, I s'pose.
-Kayla Dee


Now I remember! I wanted to plague you with mindless dribble! [ January 08, 2007 · 12:09am]
I consider myself a bright girl. Maybe not exceptionally so, but certainly not lacking to a detrimental extent. So why is it so that the "What's the worse that could happen?"s for daily, what others may consider mundane or ritual routines, can be so logically thought out in the calm of my own mind - where I can then comfortably imagine carrying them out - yet when it comes time to do so I find new horrible prospects that prevent me from then doing said tasks? The answer I inevitably arrive at is the anxiety. When speaking with my numerous physiatrists or counselors they at times appear amazed at the clarity I can analyze this hindrance, this disease I'm plagued with, to the extent that at the end of our sessions they're unable to do the job they're overpaid to do and end up offering useless advice, most memorably when my newest counselor concluded our time together with "Well you seem to have a good idea of why you're here, so what is it exactly I can help you with?" I suppose his other patients come to him completely unaware of what needs fixing and instead of, in fact, fixing them he offers his perspective on their problems. I'm sorry sir, that's not me. I know precisely what my problem is, I know exactly what warranted a spot in your patient list, what I need is a solution. Preferably one that’s not over-medication or a referral to your college buddy that you think more adept to helping. The problem there is that they never are more adept, merely perplexed quite similarly as to what I expect of them.

This is why I've decided that only I can help myself. Time to look out for number one, as mah' pops insists upon. Number one being myself, of course, and not Christopher Walken. No, not this time...

[ January 07, 2007 · 11:59pm]
[ mood | stressed ]

My internet hasn't been functioning properly as of late which frustrates me to the point of acute aggravation - which isn't very cute at all, I must say! Even more so perhaps because if don't carry out what's immediately on my mind I forget all about it and, thusly, it never gets done. My father quite often tells me when I'm unable to complete a thought whilst conversing with him that if it was important I wouldn't forget, but I can't help but feel this is the single biggest load of bullshit I've had the amusement of hearing; it is my firm belief that some of my single most inspired and meaningful thoughts were forgotten almost instantly after entering my head.

With all that said I can't for the life of me recall why I've gotten on in the first place, besides of course to take another peak at that Zelda walkthrough...


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