Breaking Up Is Hard To Do: The Tumor Speaks

For months she’s been going on about me, and, finally, I get my say. It’s about freakin' time. Ever been the victim of online character assassination? Well that’s what’s been happening on this blog and I’m pissed off. But then, you’d be pissed off, too, if you had spent years curled up against a kidney. You know what they talk about, back and forth, the pair of them? Urine. Absofreakinlutely boring. All pissing and moaning and urea. Guess it could have been worse. I might have been curled up with the lower intestines. There’s absolute crap conversation, if you get my drift.

I’m not some lump. I’m a spindle cell schwannoma -- a spin-off of a special type of neuron. That’s right, I have a brain. Or I am a brain. I’m the one who got the math genes. That’s right, Lin, you coulda breezed through algebra in high school if you had bothered to say hi, how are you, how do I factor this second-order polynomial. But no, never even the time of day. Slighted. Not that I expect anyone reading this blog to get it, ‘cause you’ve all bought in to crap that’s being slung like hash at a diner around here.

Let’s recap what I’ve been called over the last few months. An alien evil twin. A stealthy little “mass” bastard. Fatter than Jabba the Hut. Great, I get called names by some freaking Star Wars geek. Ever think that they kicked the wrong one of us out? She didn’t like my weight? Maybe she should have cut out snacking. Call me a freakin’ Cheeto? I’m surprised she weren’t screaming for Dr. Chin to pull out his light f-ing saber. "Remove it before Thanksgiving we cannot. Arrangements around people with real problems like FREAKING LIVER FAILURE we must make.”

Anyway, like any of this is really news to the ex-landlord. Don’t let her fool you -- she knew I was down here even back when she was a teenager. Always could feel something, only now it’s, "Eeek! There’s a thing down there! Get it out! GET IT OUT!!" Like Brad Pitt wanting to forget his TV debut as a guest on Growing Pains. Or David Hasselhoff trying to get past playing a character called Boner in the 70's soft-core comedy porn Revenge of the Cheerleaders. (Though in Hasselhoff’s case, you could argue that things never did get much better.) The point is, you can’t walk away from your past, or erase it, even if you do have a zipper installed fore to aft and try yanking it out.

Well, chick, I’m gone and you got your wish, though soon you’re gonna wish you hadn’t, 'cause now all your parts are bouncing around, not knowing what to do. Who do you think kept them in line all these years? Your spleen and stomach? Constantly going at it. Constantly. It was like having that middle-aged couple next door to your apartment screaming and yelling and breaking things, then getting pissed off at you when you called the cops. I’m the one who kept them from tearing each other apart. You thought I was on an extended vaca down there? I was working on keeping your digestive and excretory systems from getting on your ass. Literally. Think it’s easy being squashed this way and that? Think you know what it’s like to be uncomfortable? Try having the whole mass of you sitting on your head. It’s no picnic.

And your surgical triumph? Pictures with Dr. Chin, acting like a QVC presenter, holding me up like I’m an object on display with the phone lines manned for the flood of orders. (Oh, and Doc, what’s with the cold hands? Jeez, get your circulation checked, OK?) At least Linnnnnn -- I lose track of how many goddamned n’s to add -- got her privates and the "girls," including the vaunted party boob, left politely out of site on the blog. Me? Everything hanging out. The frickin' nurse who took the picture didn’t even get my good side!

I’m done. I’m so done. Gone. Outta there and not going back. Play the parts referee yourself, girl. These days I’m a lot happier, in a jar, floating around -- got a view, finally, even if it is from a lab shelf. Yeah, the formaldehyde smells, but let me tell you, sitting by the kidneys was no bed of roses, if you get my meaning. This is like perfume in comparison. Hmm, think I’m ready for lunch. Where do I call for room service?