I planned on keeping these posts in list-format, but I’ll make some particular exceptions if there is a more specific thing to rant about on any given Wednesday. I think I’ll just go with the flow and with whatever I’m feeling. Also? How impressed are you? 3 weeks in row?! That’s typically not even how I function! Do I smell consistency? :::sniff sniff::: Talk about adulting!
Yesterday morning was a little different from “most mornings”. Most mornings, I’m running late because my kids are the fucking worst rise-and-shiners and getting them ready for school is like a game of old-school Mortal Combat: Get over here! Combo screams! Side kick to the doors! Hold the down button for 5 seconds and turn into Lou-Kang with a fly-kick. FATALITY! FINISH THEM! If you don’t know Mortal Kombat- just…. it’s ok. Listen. I’m high on Valium and Percocet and it’s 4:43 am, Thursday morning so again, I blame the narcotics.
Most mornings, I’m so rushed I have to do my makeup whilst driving (whilst?! did I just fucking use the word whilst? Ok now I know I’m high) and jamming to the “2000’s hiphop station” on Pandora. Classics. And all mornings, I stop for my caffeine fix along my route. Particularly on Wednesday mornings for the last couple of weeks, I’m also writing up my “WTF Wednesdays” rants, whilst driving and reading blogs too. I know. I know…. it’s not exactly safe, but free time is a boujee cunt who wears graphic tees that say shit like “you can’t sit with me” and “step away, peasant”!
Most mornings? I’m for sure not up at 4 a.m. googling “causes of death during cosmetic surgeries” and especially not on the morning of my scheduled ummm, cosmetic surgery. I don’t know if that’s normal at all- but I always put myself in the worst possible scenario when I make a decision to do something and it always involves my death being a possibility as part of the process.
Am I sick? Stupid question.
Me: I should shave my legs and do my makeup because who wants to die an ugly and hairy death? I should type up some goodbye letters, and erase any shady google history or inappropriate photos, too. I should also totally make sure my phone is unlocked, so that someone can read the notes I’ve left behind in my notes app (I feel so sorry for that person. They’ll need psychiatric treatment once they’re done with those) and my blog post drafts and also so that someone has better options for nice pictures, should I come out on the news for some reason or to display in my funeral. I should probably also type up some last wishes. Like who I’ll leave all of my cosmetics too or my better clothes and handbags and my old diaries and memory boxes. And my overdrawn “savings” account.
Also me: Fuck you death. I want perky boobs and a hot bod so come at me Grim Reaper! Bring it! And bring me a venti caramel macchiato with no foam, an extra shot of espresso and 3 equals while you’re at it, you useless piece of hell. PRONTO.
I’ve always been pretty morbid like this. I ponder death more often than others do, or admit to. My closest friends will confirm that I’ve always wanted an opal or iridescent glittery casket but if that’s too expensive, then just fucking grab some glitter spray from the art store and go HAM with the glitz. I want everyone dressed in neon colors, drinking Starbucks coffee and for fuck sake make sure whoever does my dead-hair gives me sleek side-bangs and peachy cheeks. They’re just used to this kind of fuckery coming from me. I know. I’m awful and my mind can be a scary place at times.
So yesterday morning was just well, a bit off. I was prepped for surgery by 12 pm and hadn’t had a thing to eat or drink since 9 pm the night before. Fucking torture. Needless to say I was becoming delusional and left alone for a while in a room where I felt caved in by cold silence and my darker than usual thoughts dancing circles around me and staring at me from every corner and angle without blinking or breathing. Fucking creeps.
And in those short moments all I could think was, how selfish am I? What would my kids think of me if I die because of something that isn’t really necessary? How could anyone ever explain this to my children? Their mommy left them forever because she wanted boobs? The emotion and the fear of the unknown was just unbearable.
And then in comes my surgeon. Here is this tall, wise, slender man with a head full of hair and a full-on beard whiter than
cocaine plumped up soft snow. He carries himself with the kind of confidence any surgeon should, but not with that cocky “i am surgeon hear me roar” demeanor. He doesn’t smile very much but he has this dry sense of humor and an open-mind that I just immediately clicked with. He is probably the most sincere, honest, no-bullshit doctor I’ve ever met and I knew he was the one when he was like listen I’m gonna prescribe Percocet and all that junk for pain, but in my opinion? Just smoke weed. Because while I don’t smoke weed, I just loved how genuine and down to earth he was.
Also? May I add that it’s not exactly easy to carry a conversation with a strange older man who’s touching, measuring, and marking your boobs all up? You’d think you would feel violated but I totally kept the 7th grade attitude in check. His bedside manners were phenomenal. He came and sat and we talked crazy college days and social media because the man has no idea what Instagram is or how to utilize it as a business tool and I’m basically a social-media advisor and we spoke casually, like 2 normal people sitting in a coffee shop for what seemed like forever while the procedure room was being prepped. He calmed my nerves and distracted me- sent my demons to go fuck themselves and made me feel absolutely confident that I was in excellent hands.
I have to tell you, I was skeptical of him at first because I judged a book by its cover. Don’t we all? His office, where the procedure is done under general anesthesia, is SO outdated. I mean. SO. Outdated. But he’s just old school. You can tell he’s not into decorating or making shit look fancy because he knows he’s that good at what he does. He’s not a stubborn ass surgeon in his early 40’s with an overly done fancy office and chiseled down staff members who probably worked under the table in exchange for his services and who make you feel inferior from the moment you walk in. Or who has hired a company to enter all these fake 5 star reviews online and delete the real ones because he’s probably botched or even accidentally killed a few already.
Unfortunately women are attracted to looks. They want these fancy schmancy spa-like offices and don’t even bother researching who the fuck is holding the scalpel. Believe me. I worked in a cosmetic surgery practice that was basically a meat market overcrowded by women who had no idea what they were getting themselves into just because the place was “modern and hip” and popular on social media.
Peter Somers is nothing short of a badass when it comes to boobs. He comes with 41 years of experience and endless recommendations and amazing reviews. If I could go back, I wouldn’t hesitate to do it all over again.
I do however, wish him diarrhea because of the amount of fucking pain I’m in. I can’t sleep, I can’t move much, I can’t even take a full deep breathe as a result of the swelling and tightness in my chest. I feel like someone dropped 2 elephants on my chest and then tied me and the elephants down to a train track and watched us get ran over by 6 trains moving forward and then proceeding to finish the job in reverse.
Why do we do these things to ourselves right? Well. It’s my body for starters. We all have our reasons. For me? I just want my sexy back. I’m done having kids and I’m ready to look and feel fantastic and I’m going to work for it. I say to each his own. Whatever you think will make you happy, fuck the noise and the unwanted opinions. “You don’t need that! You’re beautiful!” “You have great boobs!” Yes whatever bitch let me live, lol. What’s done is done and I did this for ME. Not for my man (who by the way, was completely opposed but gave me this as a birthday gift because he knew it was something I’ve been wanting forever), not for my friends, not for my kids. Like finally. Something for me!
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to this excruciating pointless pain and senseless discomfort. Because even typing hurts right now. But I asked for this so fuck it. I’ll live! Thanks friends!