Yeah, this post is gonna be another list. I can't crank out gems every week, folks, I got places to be, people to see, and diet pepsi cravings to tame. (TWO WEEKS!)
So since the diet pepsi thing has been working out somewhat, I decided to give up a few more vices. Some more reluctantly than others. Here are the top 5, and try not to hate me too much for this lame post. It's the first week of classes and I already feel stressed out, but now that we've hit 2121 views, I figured I should remain faithful to this blog. And I am so grateful that you read it ;)
Here we go.
1. I vow to stop licking the salt off the bottom of the plate when I eat at a restaurant. It's not so much that I lick the plate...per say...it's more that I drown food in salt (hey, I have low blood pressure), so that after I eat the food I may lick my FINGER and then obtain the salt via phalanges (and for all of you people judging...I have nothing to say. I love it. I love salt. You pee in the shower, I lick salt off my fingers from the bottom of the plate).
Alas, I will stop this, because I know it is frowned upon. So no more will Jesse eat straight up salt. Good riddance to you, godforsaken salt.
2. I will not stay up late refreshing the facebook page for no particular reason. I really have no reason to keep checking. But I just...I care. I just care about everyone on facebook. I need to know what you had for lunch today. I need to see your new haircut. Your new puppy. The scrape that you got when you were taking out the trash the other day. I just care.
Alas, I will stop this, because I know I must sleep. So no more will Jesse eat straight up salt, and stay up refreshing facebook. Good riddance to you, godforsaken salt and facebook refreshing.
3. I vow to stop trying to imagine what everyone looks like bald. I seriously do it. Sometimes the moment I meet someone. I'm just so curious now...I must picture it. But I really need to stop...because some people cannot pull it off...and for those that can't pull it off...well, those are the ones that I will forever picture bald. It's a problem. If you've met me...I know what you would look like bald. And if you're bald, I imagine you with hair. It's as simple as that.
Alas, I will stop this, because I know it's irrational. So no more will Jesse eat straight up salt, stay up late refreshing facebook, and picture everyone bald. Good riddance to you, godforsaken salt, facebook, and baldness-picturing!
4. I will not leave the flat iron on. That's pretty simple, folks. Nothing else to really say about that. Except I don't want to burn anything down, and who can blame me for that? It's just that...this whole chemo brain thing...I just forget...
ALAS!!! I will stop this, because I know it will result in death and destruction. So no more will Jesse eat straight up salt, stay up late refreshing facebook, picture everyone bald, or leave the flat iron on. Good riddance to you godforsaken salt, facebook, baldness-picturing, and fire-safety hazards.
5. Lastly...I vow to stop standing on my bed with my arms in the air, singing "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" for all of my imaginary descamisados.
Alas, I am lying. I will never stop pretending to be Eva Peron.
In conclusion:
No more will Jesse eat straight up salt, stay up late refreshing facebook, picture everyone bald, leave the flat iron on, or answer to anything but Eva.
What's new Buenos Aires,
Jesse
PS: If you have a chance, check out my friend Mike's new blog!!!! PREACH IT MIKE!
Monday, August 27, 2012
Monday, August 20, 2012
On Some Real Shit...
Hellooooo peeps. Hope you're all enjoying your last bit of summer and all that jazz. I have, in fact, not had any diet soda for one whole week. It's a BIG ASS DEAL. Like for real. WTF. I don't know how I did it. I'm very proud of myself. We'll see if I can keep it up.
Anyhoooo, I know a lot of people are going back to college, or just starting college (this post is probably even more important for those of you), and I hate to be the Debbie Downer of the internet, and mack on all your righteous shots, beer pong, and sex-havin', black-outin', rootin' tootin' good times...but I'm going to anyway.
First things first, I am not Mother Theresa. I know we are all completely shocked and taken aback by this realization, but alas...it's true. I'm no saint. I don't want it to sound like I'm being a total hypocrite, because I'm not perfect. But please, please, please...read this post, and take heed.
I always wonder how I appear to everyone at school. I don't really "party" (insert last name joke hereeee, pat yourselves on the back for being the first to think of it), and if I do go to a party, I don't usually drink. And if I do drink...I am proud to say I have never, ever, ever gotten myself to the point where I don't remember what happened, can't keep myself together, am throwing up, or pass out. I don't care how square I seem, or how lame, or whatever. But I refuse to do that to my body, and I'll tell you exactly why--
I vividly remember the first time I sat in the day clinic at University Hospital. My hair was still intact, I was wearing the same clothes I'd been wearing to school just two weeks prior (even though I was swimming in them now that I'd been losing weight), and I guess all in all things hadn't sunk in quite yet. It still wasn't real. I sat between my parents on a green bench with blue polka dots, and made mental note of how tacky this place was decorated and how I was now fearfully afraid of apple juice (that's another story).
All of a sudden I looked up to see a skinny girl in a maroon-and black wool cap being wheeled out from the treatment room. (Note: I am not making up these descriptions---I literally remember everything about these days). Anyway, the girl was clearly bald underneath the cap, and she had tired eyes (a combination of exhaustion and no eyelashes or eyebrows). I stared at her for several seconds, and I remember just drinking in the entire picture: a scrawny, bald girl in a wheelchair, looking exhausted and frail from treatment. It finally sank in that this was going to be me in a matter of weeks.
I remember I started crying, and my dad asked me what was wrong. I nodded in her direction. He asked me what about her. 'She looks so sad,' I recall saying. My dad looked confused, and whispered back, 'she doesn't look so sad to me.'
Truth is, she wasn't. She was never sad, or afraid, or crying, or bitchy---all of the things that I most definitely was. Her name was Heather, she had been battling a brain tumor for just about a year now, and she was not afraid.
At least never in front of me, or my family...or really anyone else I spoke to who ever saw her. I got to know her during my next treatment when we became roommates. When she came into the room, I remember being nervous...still startled by my initial impression. But Heather was totally chill. She sat doing puzzles in her hospital bed. Her dad cracked jokes all the time, and her mom did everything to make sure that not only Heather was comfortable, but also tried to make my family comfortable.
The first afternoon we shared in that room together...I had a little hissy fit over something that in retrospect was very foolish. It was time to face the fact that I was most likely going to need to drop out of the musical at school...and I pitched a tantrum of epic proportions--complete with shouting, screaming, and all the kicking I could muster with practically no muscle in my legs anymore. That also happened to be the day that my mom and dad took me across the hall to the little washroom to shave my head--an experience that I'm not quite ready to face up to yet, as I still to this day have nightmares about it.
I remember putting on my first wig in the washroom, drying the tears, and telling my parents that I didn't think I could face Heather after the afternoon of hell I had put her through. But I gathered myself, and headed over to Heather's side of the room.
"Hi, I'm Jesse...and I'm so sorry you had to listen to all of that..." Heather laughed, and said it was no trouble. In her eyes, I could tell she totally understood. It was this day that Heather, a fifteen year old girl who I didn't really know a lot about, became my hero.
I learned that day that Heather wasn't having chemotherapy anymore...she was here to harvest stem cells for a stem cell transplant that would keep her in the hospital for 30 days. It would be a grueling month for her--she would need to be isolated from everyone, and anyone who entered her room would be required to wear this crazy germ-free outfit. They weren't sure when they would be able to begin her stem cell transplant--it all depended on how long the harvesting process took. Heather left that evening, and to be honest, it is the last lucid memory I have about that round of treatment. I ended up with a blood infection that kept me in the hospital for about 3 weeks, and I was so depressed and tired that I mostly slept.
But I remember the day I was finally told I could go home...it was the day Heather was coming in to begin the prep for her stem cell transplant. I can't remember exactly what they had to do before she started, but I know she moved into the bed next to me, and her mother put up a calender on the cabinet door, so they could begin crossing out each day of the 30. I had come full circle--beginning that cycle of treatment with Heather, and ending it with Heather. I expected her to be a little more nervous, with the big transplant approaching...but I couldn't ask her about it because she was playing Wii tennis with our other roommate (who was 3), out in the day room. Heather never, ever faltered.
Heather was in the hospital for a long time. I followed her caring bridge page faithfully, and for a while it seemed like things were going well. She came back up to 7H again, which is obviously better than ICU. But her liver was severely diseased after her body's ultimate fight. Despite the completion of a stem cell transplant, prior chemo/radiation, and the positive energy of thousands...Heather passed away from liver failure.
I remember exactly where I was when I found out that Heather died. I remember what I was doing. I remember what I ate. I remember it all. Because that day, I felt like giving up. I didn't want to be a survivor if Heather didn't get to be one, too. She was buried on my 18th birthday, March 25th, 2009.
The months went on, and my spirits got better...until all of my peers started going off to college while I still sat with a needle in my chest and a freezing cold bald head. I began to hear stories of drunken obliteration. Blacking out. Drunk driving. People getting kicked off campus for being shwasted all the time...and the worst part was...these people were broadcasting it all over facebook like it was something to be proud of. Yes, you are the absolute shit for throwing up all over someone's lap, blacking out, and getting your stomach pumped in the emergency room. The best times of your life, right?
I tried to write it off in my mind as everyone just having the college experience. But then I thought of Heather. Heather, who battled for a year and a half against a cancer that she did nothing to deserve. Heather, who turned 16 in the ICU on a ventilator. Heather, who was diagnosed at 14, never had a drink in her life, and died of liver failure.
And all these proud, drunken idiots are obliterating their livers and being fucking proud of it?
It really makes me sick. People wonder why I don't go out and party more, or drink my college nights away...and the truth is I can't let myself. Not after knowing Heather, and her struggle, and how close she was to getting her life back--and how she lost it because of liver disease. I know some of you may be thinking that this is a pretty outrageous reason to keep myself tame, and that I'm a total nut job for preaching to you like this. But I just want everyone to realize that four years of obliteration isn't worth the damage you're doing to your body. It's easy for people who have never been really sick to take their health for granted. I know I sure did. We all think we're invincible until the universe shows us that we're not. I think of Heather a lot. She basically gave me that first shred of hope that I needed to light a fire under my ass to fight the big fight. I don't think--even if she'd lived 100 years, and I tried to explain every day--she could ever know the impact that she had on my life. I'll never forget her, and I'll always talk about her. 'I will read all her dreams to the stars'. (A little Spring Awakening anyone??)
So be careful. By all means, go out, have some drinks, get a little drunk and send some crazy-ass texts, make some dumb phone calls. But please know when enough is enough.
Rest in peace, beautiful Heather. I am forever in your debt.*
Jesse
Anyhoooo, I know a lot of people are going back to college, or just starting college (this post is probably even more important for those of you), and I hate to be the Debbie Downer of the internet, and mack on all your righteous shots, beer pong, and sex-havin', black-outin', rootin' tootin' good times...but I'm going to anyway.
First things first, I am not Mother Theresa. I know we are all completely shocked and taken aback by this realization, but alas...it's true. I'm no saint. I don't want it to sound like I'm being a total hypocrite, because I'm not perfect. But please, please, please...read this post, and take heed.
I always wonder how I appear to everyone at school. I don't really "party" (insert last name joke hereeee, pat yourselves on the back for being the first to think of it), and if I do go to a party, I don't usually drink. And if I do drink...I am proud to say I have never, ever, ever gotten myself to the point where I don't remember what happened, can't keep myself together, am throwing up, or pass out. I don't care how square I seem, or how lame, or whatever. But I refuse to do that to my body, and I'll tell you exactly why--
I vividly remember the first time I sat in the day clinic at University Hospital. My hair was still intact, I was wearing the same clothes I'd been wearing to school just two weeks prior (even though I was swimming in them now that I'd been losing weight), and I guess all in all things hadn't sunk in quite yet. It still wasn't real. I sat between my parents on a green bench with blue polka dots, and made mental note of how tacky this place was decorated and how I was now fearfully afraid of apple juice (that's another story).
All of a sudden I looked up to see a skinny girl in a maroon-and black wool cap being wheeled out from the treatment room. (Note: I am not making up these descriptions---I literally remember everything about these days). Anyway, the girl was clearly bald underneath the cap, and she had tired eyes (a combination of exhaustion and no eyelashes or eyebrows). I stared at her for several seconds, and I remember just drinking in the entire picture: a scrawny, bald girl in a wheelchair, looking exhausted and frail from treatment. It finally sank in that this was going to be me in a matter of weeks.
I remember I started crying, and my dad asked me what was wrong. I nodded in her direction. He asked me what about her. 'She looks so sad,' I recall saying. My dad looked confused, and whispered back, 'she doesn't look so sad to me.'
Truth is, she wasn't. She was never sad, or afraid, or crying, or bitchy---all of the things that I most definitely was. Her name was Heather, she had been battling a brain tumor for just about a year now, and she was not afraid.
At least never in front of me, or my family...or really anyone else I spoke to who ever saw her. I got to know her during my next treatment when we became roommates. When she came into the room, I remember being nervous...still startled by my initial impression. But Heather was totally chill. She sat doing puzzles in her hospital bed. Her dad cracked jokes all the time, and her mom did everything to make sure that not only Heather was comfortable, but also tried to make my family comfortable.
The first afternoon we shared in that room together...I had a little hissy fit over something that in retrospect was very foolish. It was time to face the fact that I was most likely going to need to drop out of the musical at school...and I pitched a tantrum of epic proportions--complete with shouting, screaming, and all the kicking I could muster with practically no muscle in my legs anymore. That also happened to be the day that my mom and dad took me across the hall to the little washroom to shave my head--an experience that I'm not quite ready to face up to yet, as I still to this day have nightmares about it.
I remember putting on my first wig in the washroom, drying the tears, and telling my parents that I didn't think I could face Heather after the afternoon of hell I had put her through. But I gathered myself, and headed over to Heather's side of the room.
"Hi, I'm Jesse...and I'm so sorry you had to listen to all of that..." Heather laughed, and said it was no trouble. In her eyes, I could tell she totally understood. It was this day that Heather, a fifteen year old girl who I didn't really know a lot about, became my hero.
I learned that day that Heather wasn't having chemotherapy anymore...she was here to harvest stem cells for a stem cell transplant that would keep her in the hospital for 30 days. It would be a grueling month for her--she would need to be isolated from everyone, and anyone who entered her room would be required to wear this crazy germ-free outfit. They weren't sure when they would be able to begin her stem cell transplant--it all depended on how long the harvesting process took. Heather left that evening, and to be honest, it is the last lucid memory I have about that round of treatment. I ended up with a blood infection that kept me in the hospital for about 3 weeks, and I was so depressed and tired that I mostly slept.
But I remember the day I was finally told I could go home...it was the day Heather was coming in to begin the prep for her stem cell transplant. I can't remember exactly what they had to do before she started, but I know she moved into the bed next to me, and her mother put up a calender on the cabinet door, so they could begin crossing out each day of the 30. I had come full circle--beginning that cycle of treatment with Heather, and ending it with Heather. I expected her to be a little more nervous, with the big transplant approaching...but I couldn't ask her about it because she was playing Wii tennis with our other roommate (who was 3), out in the day room. Heather never, ever faltered.
Heather was in the hospital for a long time. I followed her caring bridge page faithfully, and for a while it seemed like things were going well. She came back up to 7H again, which is obviously better than ICU. But her liver was severely diseased after her body's ultimate fight. Despite the completion of a stem cell transplant, prior chemo/radiation, and the positive energy of thousands...Heather passed away from liver failure.
I remember exactly where I was when I found out that Heather died. I remember what I was doing. I remember what I ate. I remember it all. Because that day, I felt like giving up. I didn't want to be a survivor if Heather didn't get to be one, too. She was buried on my 18th birthday, March 25th, 2009.
The months went on, and my spirits got better...until all of my peers started going off to college while I still sat with a needle in my chest and a freezing cold bald head. I began to hear stories of drunken obliteration. Blacking out. Drunk driving. People getting kicked off campus for being shwasted all the time...and the worst part was...these people were broadcasting it all over facebook like it was something to be proud of. Yes, you are the absolute shit for throwing up all over someone's lap, blacking out, and getting your stomach pumped in the emergency room. The best times of your life, right?
I tried to write it off in my mind as everyone just having the college experience. But then I thought of Heather. Heather, who battled for a year and a half against a cancer that she did nothing to deserve. Heather, who turned 16 in the ICU on a ventilator. Heather, who was diagnosed at 14, never had a drink in her life, and died of liver failure.
And all these proud, drunken idiots are obliterating their livers and being fucking proud of it?
It really makes me sick. People wonder why I don't go out and party more, or drink my college nights away...and the truth is I can't let myself. Not after knowing Heather, and her struggle, and how close she was to getting her life back--and how she lost it because of liver disease. I know some of you may be thinking that this is a pretty outrageous reason to keep myself tame, and that I'm a total nut job for preaching to you like this. But I just want everyone to realize that four years of obliteration isn't worth the damage you're doing to your body. It's easy for people who have never been really sick to take their health for granted. I know I sure did. We all think we're invincible until the universe shows us that we're not. I think of Heather a lot. She basically gave me that first shred of hope that I needed to light a fire under my ass to fight the big fight. I don't think--even if she'd lived 100 years, and I tried to explain every day--she could ever know the impact that she had on my life. I'll never forget her, and I'll always talk about her. 'I will read all her dreams to the stars'. (A little Spring Awakening anyone??)
So be careful. By all means, go out, have some drinks, get a little drunk and send some crazy-ass texts, make some dumb phone calls. But please know when enough is enough.
Rest in peace, beautiful Heather. I am forever in your debt.*
Jesse
Monday, August 13, 2012
A Love Affair
I am having a love affair.
To anyone who knows me...it's no secret...I am addicted to diet coke/diet pepsi. Either one. I love them. Some people snort cocaine, some smoke a pack a day, and some like to obliterate themselves with alcohol (to each his own). I don't partake in smoking, drug use, and even at 21, barely ever drink alcohol. But I cannot stop drinking diet soda...
As a kid, I drank lots of regular soda, and when I went to the doctor at age 10 and was told I was ten pounds more than I should be, she told me to substitute regular soda with diet. I took her advice, and ran. I told myself it was okay because it was zero calories and yada yada yada, all those things suckers say. By high school, I was pounding those big avalanche size drinks that are legit called 'avalanche' that you buy at Hess...I was drinking one or two of them per day. But who the hell cared right??? NO CALORIES IT'S A MIRACLE.
When I think about it, it's kind of funny in a twisted-deadly-in-your-face-told-you-so sort of way. I remember a show I did back in 2005, there was a soda machine in the room next to our rehearsal space, and I was in heaven. I put all my change in a little pocket of my purse and went to town. Everyone in the cast was older than me, and they would all tease me, saying that the diet coke was gonna give me cancer...but I would just shrug it off...I do what I want...you know.
So now it's approximately 3 years later...and I am, in fact, diagnosed with cancer. WTF, right??? I remember laying in the hospital bed, the oncologist sitting beside me...I just looked up at him and asked him straight up, "Is this happening because I drank too much diet soda???" The doc just sort of gave me this look...and said, "Don't be stupid."
Okay, so I sort of felt better. I mean, he himself was drinking diet coke, and he told me that it doesn't give you cancer...
BUT GUESS WHAT ELSE????? The chemo drugs....they did this funny thing to the taste of soda...I just...legit...couldn't taste it. It tasted kind of like...when you're swimming in the ocean (WHICH IS TERRIFYING DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY DEAD PEOPLE ARE PROBS IN THE OCEAN????) and you get plunged under water by a wave. You're taken off guard, so you end up inhaling ocean water and it tastes like...salty, but there's also some sand mixed in there and possibly some pee??? Yeah...that's what soda tasted like.
PERFECT RIGHT (apart from the nausea, baldness, needles, blood, throw up, bruises, shots, constipation, opposite of constipation, pity glances, and horsepills)???????????????? Wrong. It was not, in fact, a solution to the problem. Because Jesse is an old dog, and can't learn new tricks. I totally misused that phrase. Anywho. I was too addicted to soda. SO. I grew accustomed to the one soda that sort of tasted like soda: Dr. Pepper (also the only doctor that didn't ask me if I'd pooped in the past 24 hours.) And when I started putting on weight from a combination drinking too much of him, and laying around in bed for months on end...I didn't give a shit because I was already bald so who really cares???? .. I'd stopped trying to impress the other bald children with my dashing good looks a long timeeeee ago.
When treatment ended, I was put on this crazy, zainy drug that had some sort of name like arogshfdkjlcxhkmcyclene. And it totally made me not crave food. SO. I looked good, and still got to drink as much Dr. Pepper as I wanted.
But as my recovery progressed, I didn't need rseioptueriopHWEOPADBEJIOBFKDJCAPSLOCKcyclene anymore...and I'm not gonna say I was fat...but I was...not...skinny.
AND AT MUSICAL THEATER SCHOOL...well let's just say...the pressure is on to be skinty skinty skinty. So who was there for me???
That sexy old devil...diet pepsi.
So long story made somewhat shorter...I'm addicted to diet soda. Badly. And while I've been reassured over and over again that it doesn't give you cancer...I know that it has no nutritional value, and can actually lead to food cravings, making you even fatter. With my fragile health history, and barely-hanging-in-there kidneys...I know it's time for a change. I've known for a long time, but never knew how to go about quitting my special friend.
But with this blog...and all of the support and love its garnered...I decided this is how I'm going to do it. I am going to quit diet pepsi publicly. So if I fail...you will all think I'm a big puss. And I don't want to fail...because I'm not a big puss. I'm a f*c*i*g warrior. My tat says so.
So each week when I post, I will do a small little summary of my progress. And there will be progress because I don't want to let my blog-readers down. I mean, I beat the shit out of cancer...this should be easy, right???? I know it won't be. But I also know it's going to help me out a lot in the long run.
Here we go dear blog readers. After I post this to the page, I'm going to pour myself a farewell glass of my poison...and then it's curtains for coke.
Here goes nothing!
Jesse
PS. OMG THE SPICE GIRLS WAS MY FAVORITE OLYMPIC EVENT!!!
To anyone who knows me...it's no secret...I am addicted to diet coke/diet pepsi. Either one. I love them. Some people snort cocaine, some smoke a pack a day, and some like to obliterate themselves with alcohol (to each his own). I don't partake in smoking, drug use, and even at 21, barely ever drink alcohol. But I cannot stop drinking diet soda...
As a kid, I drank lots of regular soda, and when I went to the doctor at age 10 and was told I was ten pounds more than I should be, she told me to substitute regular soda with diet. I took her advice, and ran. I told myself it was okay because it was zero calories and yada yada yada, all those things suckers say. By high school, I was pounding those big avalanche size drinks that are legit called 'avalanche' that you buy at Hess...I was drinking one or two of them per day. But who the hell cared right??? NO CALORIES IT'S A MIRACLE.
When I think about it, it's kind of funny in a twisted-deadly-in-your-face-told-you-so sort of way. I remember a show I did back in 2005, there was a soda machine in the room next to our rehearsal space, and I was in heaven. I put all my change in a little pocket of my purse and went to town. Everyone in the cast was older than me, and they would all tease me, saying that the diet coke was gonna give me cancer...but I would just shrug it off...I do what I want...you know.
So now it's approximately 3 years later...and I am, in fact, diagnosed with cancer. WTF, right??? I remember laying in the hospital bed, the oncologist sitting beside me...I just looked up at him and asked him straight up, "Is this happening because I drank too much diet soda???" The doc just sort of gave me this look...and said, "Don't be stupid."
Okay, so I sort of felt better. I mean, he himself was drinking diet coke, and he told me that it doesn't give you cancer...
BUT GUESS WHAT ELSE????? The chemo drugs....they did this funny thing to the taste of soda...I just...legit...couldn't taste it. It tasted kind of like...when you're swimming in the ocean (WHICH IS TERRIFYING DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY DEAD PEOPLE ARE PROBS IN THE OCEAN????) and you get plunged under water by a wave. You're taken off guard, so you end up inhaling ocean water and it tastes like...salty, but there's also some sand mixed in there and possibly some pee??? Yeah...that's what soda tasted like.
PERFECT RIGHT (apart from the nausea, baldness, needles, blood, throw up, bruises, shots, constipation, opposite of constipation, pity glances, and horsepills)???????????????? Wrong. It was not, in fact, a solution to the problem. Because Jesse is an old dog, and can't learn new tricks. I totally misused that phrase. Anywho. I was too addicted to soda. SO. I grew accustomed to the one soda that sort of tasted like soda: Dr. Pepper (also the only doctor that didn't ask me if I'd pooped in the past 24 hours.) And when I started putting on weight from a combination drinking too much of him, and laying around in bed for months on end...I didn't give a shit because I was already bald so who really cares???? .. I'd stopped trying to impress the other bald children with my dashing good looks a long timeeeee ago.
When treatment ended, I was put on this crazy, zainy drug that had some sort of name like arogshfdkjlcxhkmcyclene. And it totally made me not crave food. SO. I looked good, and still got to drink as much Dr. Pepper as I wanted.
But as my recovery progressed, I didn't need rseioptueriopHWEOPADBEJIOBFKDJCAPSLOCKcyclene anymore...and I'm not gonna say I was fat...but I was...not...skinny.
AND AT MUSICAL THEATER SCHOOL...well let's just say...the pressure is on to be skinty skinty skinty. So who was there for me???
That sexy old devil...diet pepsi.
So long story made somewhat shorter...I'm addicted to diet soda. Badly. And while I've been reassured over and over again that it doesn't give you cancer...I know that it has no nutritional value, and can actually lead to food cravings, making you even fatter. With my fragile health history, and barely-hanging-in-there kidneys...I know it's time for a change. I've known for a long time, but never knew how to go about quitting my special friend.
But with this blog...and all of the support and love its garnered...I decided this is how I'm going to do it. I am going to quit diet pepsi publicly. So if I fail...you will all think I'm a big puss. And I don't want to fail...because I'm not a big puss. I'm a f*c*i*g warrior. My tat says so.
So each week when I post, I will do a small little summary of my progress. And there will be progress because I don't want to let my blog-readers down. I mean, I beat the shit out of cancer...this should be easy, right???? I know it won't be. But I also know it's going to help me out a lot in the long run.
Here we go dear blog readers. After I post this to the page, I'm going to pour myself a farewell glass of my poison...and then it's curtains for coke.
Here goes nothing!
Jesse
PS. OMG THE SPICE GIRLS WAS MY FAVORITE OLYMPIC EVENT!!!
Monday, August 6, 2012
What I Know For Sure: A Reflection
So just as often as I hear "you're very inspiring", I hear "you must have this wonderful, new outlook on life. You must be very wise for your age."
Okay. I can agree with that. I know a lot of things. All of which I've learned since my diagnosis, and they are very important to carry with me and keep in mind as I go through life. I thought I'd list them for you today.
As a disgruntled, 20-something cancer survivor, I know this much is true:
1. Reality TV is 100% real. Really. New York, Flave, Brett Michaels...they're so brave to put their dating life on TV for us all to watch them fall in love and spread warts. Jersey Shore...UGH...bravo, you beautiful people. Your tan escapades give me hope that one day, I too can be a slutty, drunk, burned up, VD-infested, T-Shirt-Shop-Working millionaire.
2. Everyone should go out and purchase the biggest, most obnoxious pairs of sunglasses you can find (fake regular glasses too). Life is too short to blend in to the background, or have sun in your eyes. If you don't wear the gaudiest, showiest sunglasses or frames you can find...you will be blinded by the light (see what I did there???).
3. Anyone who doesn't think a puppy can cure all sadness needs a puppy. My little guy was the perfect cure for the cancer blues.
4. Everyone, everyone, everyone is an idiot. Including you. Including me. Including you. But not Victoria Beckham.
5. When in doubt, go to sleep.
6. Nipples cost extra in breast reconstruction. I learned this from cancer-waiting-room-literature. Mind! BLOWN! Hmm. Anything above 50 bucks a nip would be a little out of my price range I think.
7A. In a doctors office, the most important thing to everyone is your poop. So always make an accurate evaluation before you go in, so you know what to tell the docs.
B. The greatest words you can ever hear from a doctor (other than you're not cancerous anymore) are 'you should eat more. just eat whatever you want.'
8. I'm taking Kanye as my date to the TONYS so if I win, he can ridicule me and everyone will feel bad for me and I'll become more famous.
9. Chemotherapy means CURTAINS FOR ACNE! SO F***K YOU PROACTIVE!!!
10. We should never, ever, ever stifle our emotions. Because if we never show emotion, we'll cheat on Rob Pattinson with our Snow White and the Huntsman director and become shunned by the middle school girls of America.
For everyone who thinks I'm this wise pillar of post-cancer wisdom, I'm sorry. I'm not. Like most cancer survivors, I just want to get on with my life. Has cancer changed the way I think? A little bit, but honestly...not all that much. I sometimes feel like I should be this great, wonderful person who is happy each day she's alive. But to quote Veronica Sawyer in my favorite movie Heathers...
I'm just like you. But because I understand the ten facts stated in this blog, I'm ahead of the game.
Love,
Jesse
PS: CLOSING WEEKEND OF GREASE 315-479-SHOW. Come see me do breast-perking exercises!!!! HURRAY!
Okay. I can agree with that. I know a lot of things. All of which I've learned since my diagnosis, and they are very important to carry with me and keep in mind as I go through life. I thought I'd list them for you today.
As a disgruntled, 20-something cancer survivor, I know this much is true:
1. Reality TV is 100% real. Really. New York, Flave, Brett Michaels...they're so brave to put their dating life on TV for us all to watch them fall in love and spread warts. Jersey Shore...UGH...bravo, you beautiful people. Your tan escapades give me hope that one day, I too can be a slutty, drunk, burned up, VD-infested, T-Shirt-Shop-Working millionaire.
2. Everyone should go out and purchase the biggest, most obnoxious pairs of sunglasses you can find (fake regular glasses too). Life is too short to blend in to the background, or have sun in your eyes. If you don't wear the gaudiest, showiest sunglasses or frames you can find...you will be blinded by the light (see what I did there???).
(props to Matthew Danko, for finding these glasses)
4. Everyone, everyone, everyone is an idiot. Including you. Including me. Including you. But not Victoria Beckham.
5. When in doubt, go to sleep.
6. Nipples cost extra in breast reconstruction. I learned this from cancer-waiting-room-literature. Mind! BLOWN! Hmm. Anything above 50 bucks a nip would be a little out of my price range I think.
7A. In a doctors office, the most important thing to everyone is your poop. So always make an accurate evaluation before you go in, so you know what to tell the docs.
B. The greatest words you can ever hear from a doctor (other than you're not cancerous anymore) are 'you should eat more. just eat whatever you want.'
8. I'm taking Kanye as my date to the TONYS so if I win, he can ridicule me and everyone will feel bad for me and I'll become more famous.
9. Chemotherapy means CURTAINS FOR ACNE! SO F***K YOU PROACTIVE!!!
10. We should never, ever, ever stifle our emotions. Because if we never show emotion, we'll cheat on Rob Pattinson with our Snow White and the Huntsman director and become shunned by the middle school girls of America.
For everyone who thinks I'm this wise pillar of post-cancer wisdom, I'm sorry. I'm not. Like most cancer survivors, I just want to get on with my life. Has cancer changed the way I think? A little bit, but honestly...not all that much. I sometimes feel like I should be this great, wonderful person who is happy each day she's alive. But to quote Veronica Sawyer in my favorite movie Heathers...
"If you were happy every day of your life, you wouldn't be a human being; you'd be a game show host."
I'm just like you. But because I understand the ten facts stated in this blog, I'm ahead of the game.
Love,
Jesse
PS: CLOSING WEEKEND OF GREASE 315-479-SHOW. Come see me do breast-perking exercises!!!! HURRAY!
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