entering the tunnel

This picture represents the whole of my day yesterday:

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Go ahead…take a good, close look at it, my friends. Won’t you join me in embracing the horror that is my life right now?

Yes, that is cherry Jello, Dulcolax, Earl Grey tea, Rescue Remedy, chicken bouillon, and an enema. Perhaps you didn’t hear me correctly. I said THAT IS A LAXATIVE AND A FUCKING ENEMA. Yeah. And those are baby wipes and air-freshener. You’re a smart cookie; I’m sure you can piece together the bigger picture.

So, as you have probably ascertained all on your own, I am on a liquid diet and have, since yesterday morning, eaten nothing today but sips of the foodstuffs you see before you. Though outwardly I look like a bitter, aged Beth Ditto, trust me, on the inside I am Mary Kate Olsen. I would silently murder my own mother if it meant that my fatass could eat an entire large movie popcorn, dripping in butter and salt, all by myself. I would boil and eat my own children right now if I thought I could get away with it (lord knows, they are tender and succulent enough!)

Because I am at long last having my surgery today, rockstar doctor left us with strict pre-op orders, which, of course, Cancerian Jewish Doctor’s son has me following to a T. Between the Dulcolax and the enema within, I just cannot seem to hold my mud! But that, I suppose, is exactly the desired effect. This house, so to speak, is clean.

At any rate, in about four hours, I shall be laid out on the slab, opened up, and the wicked orange that started all this pesky hullabaloo shall be removed from my sacred temple, i.e., my bloody guts. Be gone, foul citrus, I say! Off with you!

As per the queerness of my little family, at least two children have already sweetly, but firmly, requested that said everlovin’ tumor be encased in glass and formaldehyde for display on our fireplace mantle. I have more than half a mind to do it, too. It’s my tumor, after all, isn’t it? I should be able to doll it up and show it off if I want to! Hey, maybe I shall even charge admission! It’ll be like a right proper carnival sideshow, just like my great granny might have put on. I shall be proud to wear the noble midway mantle of my gypsy ancestors. Goddamnit, I am fancy!

So, with Gregory standing here stamping his cute hoof, I should go, as my chariot awaits me. If you have any good thoughts to spare this day, please send them my way — my queerish little family could use ’em. Wish me luck and I shall see everyone on the other side.

Love, love, love to everybody.

About muffybolding

Muffy Bolding is a mother/writer/actor/knitter/feminist/withered debutante who likes the smell of asparagus pee, and remains obsessed with the bathroom hygiene of her three children -- despite the fact that they are 23, 19, and 16. She is blissfully married to a cute Jewish boy who looks like Willie Wonka, but remains tragically in love with the dead poet, Ted Hughes. She has the mouth of a Teamster, and her patron saint is Rocco (pestilence relief.) Ms. Bolding lives in Southern California, where she enjoys typing words, making movies, and plucking the rings from the fingers of the dead. She was the co-creator and Editor-in-Chief of the award winning satire zine, Fresno Lampoon, and in between writing screenplays, carnival barking, and savagely threatening her trio of darling larvae with a wooden spoon, she currently publishes the zine, "Withered Debutante." More of her work can also be found in the anthology, "Mamaphonic: Balancing Motherhood and Other Creative Acts", the compilation zine, "Mamaphiles III: Coming Home", as well as in The Cortland Review and hipmama.com. She is currently writing and producing for film and television, and working on a book of essays entitled, "Inside A Chinese Dragon." She has slept around, but not nearly as much as she would have liked.
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