Waiting for the Cancer Call
Still Waiting For the Cancer Call
I took my children to the AT&T store today for a repair. The girls, not realizing they were giving me heart palpitations, kept calling me from the display phones (with rapid succession unknown numbers showing up in caller I.D.) in the show room. I couldn’t tell them to “FUCKING STOP IT! I’M WAITING FOR THE CANCER CALL!” so I just smiled serenely instead. Also, since it’s my birthday, my friends were all calling my phone to sing off-key to me. Thus, after my 24 hour vigil, in the middle of Target, after about 20 false-alarm calls, the surgeon finally called me to advise that I just had some sneaky, low-rent benign cysts. Stupid fucking cysts. Histrionic bastards. Always wanting their fifteen minutes of fame that only tumors seem to get. Whhhhaaaaa, I say. And that’s why you can’t jump to conclusions. It’s pointless. You know when you know. Cysts were a very nice birthday present indeed. I may order them next year. With powdered sugar and some strawberries. And maybe next year they will give me a spork. I wish sporks and strawberries for all your birthdays. Gosh, I’m an upbeat lady!