No one expects to find out their boyfriend cheated on them, that the months you were certain and he kept telling you that you were crazy, you were only right.

And no one expects to turn on their computer one day, an important day with two online quizzes and 2 half finished papers due, and for nothing, absolutely nothing, to happen to the screen.

And no one expects that one day out of nowhere one of their best friends, only 41, may die in Chicago of sudden cancer.  Sudden cancer? How is that a thing?

But it is a thing. This guy who for years was my sidekick in pretty much all of life, my best friend, my platonic boyfriend, my all night phone buddy, my early morning meeting friend, just one day didn’t feel good, found out it was cancer, and upon refusing treatment was dead within hours.

And so today in the shower, trying my fucking hardest to produce a natural looking hair color scrub out at least some of the neon red streaks so it looks funeral-decent, I had that weird vertigo kind of moment where I ended up on my hands and knees from life-dizziness, just sobbing and sobbing and saying (I suspect out loud) “It’s sudden!”  A lot had occurred to me over the past few days as I’d adjusted, but the abruptness of him being not dead/being dead, that was more than I knew what to do with now that for the first time, I’d made that connection.

I mean, death is sudden.

And somehow in the middle of this I struggled to a seated position, And heard his voice in my head clear as day, as clearly as every single fucking annoying time you hear someone say after someones death that they could hear their voices in their head, and thankfully, that voice had nothing sentimental or heartfelt or any answers or growth to offer: That voice I heard in my head did me at least the decency of saying exactly what I knew Robert, buyer of killer bunny slippers and recorder of Mrs. Gorilla and Mrs. Non-Gorilla videos would actually say:

“No one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition”.

And for a little bit, that made me feel better. I was glad for my friend, and I’m glad for Monty Python, and my hair looks like shit, and for whatever reason it struck me as urgent to purge all of that here, now.

 Yeah Ash, I’m totally reposting this, not just because it’ for me but because it’s about girlfriends, the good rare beautiful kind, and because it’s lovely.

ashleyfuckingahn:

&

& isn’t just a symbol

a method of conjoining

siamese twins, split mind, troubled

thought.

Look at how & is formed

twisted, like a salted pretzel

curled like those men whose arms

are folded, arms that form

perfect “L’s”, shaped to wrap me into a

safety net.

& became me and…

Poems for girlfriends are always so much better from other girlfriends than from boyfriends or potential ones. Girlfriends are not chosen, and they did not choose you: They are you, or are the part of you that you are not but that you require. Their poems are not promises or waxing sentiments, their poems are observations and treasured ones at that…

I have never loved a poem more than the one jut written to me from a girlfriend. I will tear every man I love apart to find the girlfriend in him that just isn’t going to be there, and that could never write me the poem I will love most in all the world.

When my brother was very young he had to join me at the store one day, where he witnessed me buying tampons. I explained that I had my period, but wanted to go swimming at my friend Dana’s house. Years later, he told me that he wished for that entire summer that he could get his period.

It was a hot summer, and he really wished he could go swimming at someone’s house. 

I never understood that line of childlike reasoning until all the recent talk about gay marriage allowing men and women to spend the rest of their life with their partners who they love and who love them… now I get it, totally.

Sigh. 

(But at the same time, hoorah for people getting their heads out of their asses more publicly, obviously. Yay for love and union!)

Happy May.

Today is going to be lovely.

lynzobergs:

what is this.  it’s amazing is what it is.

And, magic. Friday I was still super pink and sunburned feeling but also with hanging little bits of singed skin (I know, that’s supersexy) , and then Saturday I got out of the shower (insert cheesy porn music here), patted my towel on the face, and HOLY FUCK, most of my face seemed to be left on the towel in a perfect form of it.  Which is how day 3 being a mess turned to day 4 where I look like that with no makeup on.  I don’t know how it happened. Dry skin fell off in towel, newer better face under it coming out for all the world to see.

Sunday I went to Sephora to celebrate, but to my shock I couldn’t find any makeup I needed— I’m probably going to take the one thing I got back because without a pound of concealer and foundation to compensate for, heavy eye makeup isn’t distracting from anything, just making me look sickly.  It could well be that from now on, I’m going to be a tinted moisturizer and slight bit of cheek and lip balm girl.  What the hell.

So, that’s it. I’m sure next week I’ll get back to being displeased with something else, but as of this minute I feel like the hottest girl I’ve ever met— and I know a lot of super hot girls. 

That is all. It’s not articulate… but for all anyone knows I was just going through all of this so I could stop even trying to think and skate by completely on my looks.  That’s how totally pretty I feel.

Just saying.

Day two.  This is what I look like today.

It itches like a motherfucker, and I keep having these totally sexy dreams but in the end, instead of tearing my nails down Hank Azaria’s back (Hey, we all have a type: Mine is brilliant, bumbling and horn rimmed: Don’t act like you didn’t know), I’m scraping them across my dry itching face in ecstasy.*Then I wake up and much to my relief, my face is stuck to the pillow with tiny uniform lines where I was burned repeatedly with a laser in a grid form… whew. I was afraid something bad had happened.

Only slightly related, I haven’t been to the gym all week— this is something I find wildly frustrating. I would totally let people see me this way despite being deeply petty (like pretty, but with the r temporarily suspended), but I can’t imagine putting my face next to where that one kind of smelly guy who wears chest hair over his short puts his armpits when he’s getting his water on  the ab machines is the best idea. Nor can I imagine anyone can’t wait to get their arms around the petroleum and emulsion cream free weight and machine handles I’ve left in my wake. But I am a woman who likes to work out— I wish I had thought of this sooner and set up a few 10 lb’ers and a mat for some crunches and pushups and whatever without worrying about carpet fibers on my face.  It’s funny how much I don’t think about what goes on or around my face on a day to day basis when it’s important enough to me to have done this for.

Oh, this reminds me. I finally ran into one of my friends who actually does have some beef with me getting a cosmetic procedure. And I say ‘friend’ loosely, and by ‘has some beef’ I mean was a catty backhanded complimenting critical feminist to someone else about it, and they told me because dude, if you gossip about someone, odds are they gossip too. That’s why they like you.  And, that’s why I like them.

Petty, yes. Catty, ohhhsomuch.

Anyway, the answer to that is that I did this for perfectly fair reasons. I had horrible breakouts after pregnancy, and some of them were this terrible bacterial kind under the skin that gave me big deep ugly pits in my face. It’s not like this is how I look, something happened to me chemically and it scarred me. And I don’t want holes in my face. So what if you think I’m fine the way I am? I don’t want to be fine. I want to be hot. And that’s not any more shallow than a beautiful heavy girl deciding to eat better because she would like her tummy more. Or a totally beautiful big boobed girl getting a reduction because she doesn’t want that to be all people see. I wanted to fix something, as a gift I was able to, and I don’t give a fuck if it makes me seem shallow. I, as recreation, read two qualitative studies on emotional abuse as a singular abuse in the absence of physical abuse and the different symptoms it may cause that are mistakenly treated as a generalized anxiety disorder without any specific treatable source, and out tragic need for clearer definition of abuse in absence of physical/sexual maltreatment this morning. And after that, I read some Brautigan because I believe one should read poetry every single day. 

And I’m sorry, but I refuse to feel stupid because I did that with a little scar cream on. Absurdly hot women have the right to be smart and confident too, and absurdly smart and confident women have the right to make themselves more sexy without losing any credibility for doing so.  I am totally smart. And I’m sweet. And, I’m going to go put on more scar cream now so my face will be all milky and beautiful next time I can wear makeup, and that doesn’t change any of those things.

*When I’m not having that dream, I’m dreaming I’m covered in fleas. That just isn’t as fun to mention.

So, my boyfriend bought me laser resurfacing for Christmas. Not in an “I think you need to get all that evidence of your teenage acne fixed” way, but an “I know this is something you want, but I hope you know I think you’re beautiful just as you are” way.

Though quite frankly, I think the real truth is it was in an “I didn’t get you anything for Christmas because I’m kind of aloof, and now I need something pretty awesome to present to you in front of the tree” way… but tomato, tomaato.

Anyway, I couldn’t find any pictures that detailed peoples entire recovery period… so here are some. I’m going to tag the heck out of it so people can find it on that hunt, and after it’s all said and done I will resume forgetting I have a Tumblr until I start following or being followed by someone who is wayyy more interesting than me and it makes me feel lazy/guilty/boring.

Until then: Here is my first day after laser resurfacing. We used a smart dot c20 laser, and I feel good about it thus far. I do swear that child birthing was a little less painful, and my pictures are not the best depiction of healing since the Dr. all but called me a lucky freak of nature for already being impressively far along in the healing process… why can’t I just be one of those girls who can play a piano without being taught? Nope, my amazing skill is fast healing laser-burned skin. Whatever, here it is. Babbling tumblr post and all.

And while I’m babbling, let me just say that I realize it isn’t Christmas now. I wanted to wait until my daughters spring break so I wouldn’t scare the shit out of her.

ummm, if this link doesn’t attach, I’m going to stand by my statement anyway.