Really Could Use Some April The Pregnant Giraffe Action Right About Now.

Oh my how times were easier. A lot of my online friends were obsessed with this pregnant ass giraffe. Not me tho, ever going against the grain, I chose not to watch it. The intrigue. When will she have it..awe…go April. I know some who had the cam up the entire day at work and shit.

What I’d give to see something like that. This world. The sickness. The death. The killings. The Protests. The evil. All of it will come burning down, just as a it’s done in the past. Fuck us all.

So this week in life after cancer, I will be going for a consult at Unc Burn And Plastics on August 3, 2020. I’m beyond thrilled af about this meeting. Hopefully I will have a surgery date by the end of the month.

Ah, my explant/tram flap surgery. Yes, thank fuck. I can see it in my horizon brainholes and it looks to be a beautiful implant pain free life. I may get mobility of my right shoulder back as well.

The Everything And The Kitchen Sink

Some 1699 days ago, the question was posed to me what would my sweet Baboo think about what I’m writing about him [sic]. My answer at the time was to the effect of I’d tell him i was scared and he knows my love for him has never wained…so yeah, no worries on the home from us here. I firmly believe I will have the same open, honest, real and lovingly relationship with Sweet Baboo (9) as I do with my older two sons, 25 and 24, respectively.

Speaking of my older ones, 9 says that I’m a lucky mom that my sons, his brother’s, call me almost everyday. Yes, baby; I am lucky.

So, I did tell him of my cancer last week when I was dropping him at a friends house so I can get the CT Scan. Told him, the doctor wasn’t sure about the sports on my ribs and that’s why she wanted to do more testing; adding that I’m sure the tests will show no cancer – though in my fucking mind I was convinced it was all over my ribs at a stage 4, ffs – don’t worry baby, I’m sure it’ll be fine.

I can’t say if he will want to go back to a time of my cancer and him being five. No shit, he turned five about a week and half before I found the goddamned lump. Fucking two types of cancers. Goddammit. Five yeas old for fucks sake. At the time of writing with I’ve remained cancer free for 1670 days!! And without ANY hormone replacement therapy even though I was estrogen positive.

Even though I’ve was in complete manic mode, I never stopped loving my boys and gained a greater love for friends and family. So yeah, if he asks, I’ll tell him I kept the shit real. He’ll absorb it and probably go back to Fortnite.

Cancer Scare

Holy fuckimorlee. Living life after cancer is like walking on glass, you know you’ll get cut; just when will that sneaky ass shard of glass ever so slightly pierce your foot and the blood starts gushing and no matter what you do, you can’t stop the blood because it’s everywhere.

So I had a bone scan last week and the oncologist saw some ‘questionable’ markings within my ribs. Let’s give you a CT scan in the next day or two Tara. It’s really 50/50 Tara. Sorry I can’t tell you more until we view the scans. Get the scans and wait a day or two.

This isn’t the fist cancer scare in the past four years and I know it won’t be the last.

Been getting my head together. Getting my body together.Taking care of my health and ongoing multi skeletal pain. It’s amazing at what a switch of medicine can do. Gaining weight for my tram surgery sometime late August. Told me I wasn’t ‘big enough’. Scoffs, as if.

If anyone reading this was with me years back, you may recall I chose bilateral mastectomy with immediate reconstruction. Now, 4 1/2 years of living with these heavy ass/painful implants I’ll be getting those fuckers out. Hell toss them at the wall to see if they stick, IDGAF. Just don’t want to see them anymore.

I urge you to carefully research all your options, prior to mastectomy. I know the time is harrowing and full of angst, but I feel now, no woman should endure the painful numbness of implants. Tram flap is the way to do. Just wish I knew that and shit years back.

No need to dwell. I am not. I’d like my voice to be used for the good, the scared and unconventional breast cancer patients.

The Reading Of #badboob As Read By Yours Truly

Entry 1 – My story and shit

I’ve wrestled with the idea to verbally retell my journey with breast cancer and I know my word will reach wide and far. For anyone feeling hopeless/helpless; I am here for you.

No one should go through life alone. Especially breast cancer and all the gnarly shit that accompanies the beast that invaded your breast, mind and soul. It’s hard to climb back up.

#badboob – Entry 1 – My Story And Shit

Life is so fucked up already with so many goddamned obstacles and shit. We need to be okay with speaking up for ourselves. Advocate for our own beliefs and morals. Then help other causes.

Hell, I’m still climbing today.

Whatever Is Truly Alive Must Die…

Look at the flowers, only plastic flowers never die.

Anthony de Mello

Fucking Anthony, how did you know these things for I have been watering a plastic plant for nearly two years now.

Ahem, ah yes, so where to begin this silly sorted tale of plant disguiser full of fuckery.

Just about two years ago, #MothersDay, I received this darling succulent inside a glazed dragonfly ceramic pottery. The plant’s expertly arranged tiny pebbles protected the base and prevented root growth and stunting it;s growth —-> or so I thought.

You see, I’ve been watering this lil guy, moving it from sunny locale to sunny locale. I protected this motherfucker from cold, frosty windows. Gave this bitch water, when I thought it was thirsty. Fuck me dead, did read I this plant’s signs wrong or what?

See, it’s all nice and green and unassuming and shit. It’s a succulent. We only feed those fuckers once a week, no? Am I not wrong here? Watering so little, I presumed I was doing an absofuckinlutely amazing job with this plant. I mean, it’s almost two years old and not one yellow leaf.

Fuck yeah.

Finally house planting right and shit.

Looks like the real goddamned deal and shit

But no, oh no. Was I wrong. So, I was my usual clumsy self and knocked this sweet baby off the window sill, just about two weeks ago. Now, I was totally feeling the heat to get this bitch in another pot and fast. So today, 4/22/20, I went to repot this little guy after unsuccessfully being able to reassemble the ceramic.

That is when I discovered this fucker’s true identity. As mentioned, it was secured by tiny pebbles and some foam below. Foam still damp. Whew, thank fuck; it’s not dead yet.

So I began to assemble small rocks into a lovely planter, when the little green stick fucker moved. Odd, I think. So I begin to wiggle the green stick, taking great care as to not disrupt the sensitive roots. Uhm….what? Fake? Tries to bite leaves…goddamned plastic.

For a long ass time, I sat dumbfounded at this plastic plant whom I thought was real for nearly two years…two fucking years.

Couldn’t wait to tell Mr. Badboob this revelation. As this is typical ‘Tara’ shit, but this is ‘Tara’ed’ to a whole new level. He said he knew cause he and lil badboob bought it for me. They spent a lot of time picking it out for me. So I then asked him why he didn’t say anything when I kept watering and letting it play with the sun? Never having seen me water it and me moving shit around is my MO he replied, so thought nothing off from that behavior.

Oh sweet mother Mary of fuck.

I attest to the truth and validity of this story. I do know another woman just shared her story as well. I actually told Mr. Badboob about it earlier in the week. What lolz where had. Now I’m lol’ing all over myself.

Debbie, Didi, Eddy…..So What Fucking Whore Of Satan’s Asshole’re

Bringing home tonight? Hmm….A fucking Eddy. Goddamned it. Goddamned her. Goddamned them all.

All the fucking same. Come in late night, early night, noonthirty drunk and still thirsty af. Ya fucking fucker you.

No, I wouldn’t say I am angry [to those you thinking that, I see you]. I just am a poor. Poor at that nurturing, founding love that infants are supposed to receive. I’m over being held emotionally paralyzed by the trauma that occurred. hat’s it, just being. Just surviving the bullshit of the evening. The next day, going to school like a normal.

Great. Fucking Eddy has a goddamned kid. And they’ve both fucking moved in since the goddamned weekend. Mind you, it’s only been three days, as today’s just Wednesday and there’s a skank is in the kitchen. And there’s skank luggage on the floor – Skanks are like fleas, once you see your first one at your residence, it take months and months of eradication – Happy, happy, joy. And how old is this crowned whore of Country Cousin [of Lizard Lick, NC fame]? Ah, much older than me, that’s good. Let’s see how long this’ll last.

Almost two weeks.

You fuckers lasted almost two weeks before you began throwing and breaking shit. The next day going to school like a normal.

During that 12 day break-in period, I did get my only birthday present that year. My 16th. I hear-tell grand stories of a Sweet 16th….so, my only gift that year was a carton of cigarettes. I shit you not. I have no reason to lie nor any desire to fucker up my brainholes with more ubiquitous noise in the ub form of words. I like my brain to be a nice big blank canvas, with happy clouds and soft grass. Okay, I got two gifts the day I turned 16 in October. A carton of [stolen from the gas station] cigarettes from a 2 week old whore in the home and a helium balloon from the principal at SSS. Of which, I promptly carried the bday balloon to the courtyard and we huffed the helium. Passing the balloon, cigarettes and Boone’s Farm between classes. Now that was a birthday to be remembered.

I’ve been a parent for 25 years. I know it’s hard af. But it’s like you didn’t even try and shit. Or did you? Was that your best?….It couldn’t Even on my worst parenting day, ever…I could never imagine subjecting my sons to the shit you made me witness. No wonder you died in a pile of your own shit.

TBT – I’m Ready To Be Over My Emotion Sickness

It’s no secret my life’s been tough. And yet I persist. I’ve known my purpose is of something greater than a mere mortal. This much I know is true. From birth to fucking 46. But here I am.

Here we are. All of us. On the brink of fuckity fuckered shit will rain down upon us when it’s said and done and neatly written about in our history books. Grab the umbrella kids, it’s going to get messier here.

Switching gears here…

I’ve got some fanfuckintastic news folks — There is NO evidence of metastatic cancer in my body, atm!!! Can I get a ‘fuck yeah’? Another scan in six months to follow up on a concerting spot, but all good. Thank you Daisy Hill Puppy Farm. For real. I just knew with the amount of pain I suffered daily, it must be cancer. That coupled with the fact I’ve not taken the recommended Tamoxifen for the past four and half years. I just have shitty ass bones. Luckily, I’ve just met with a pain management doctor, insurance review fuckers [ruled in my favor], a psychiatrist [both the TSD’s – Current and Past], a neurologist, dermatologist and ENT are rolling up soon and yaaaaaaaas a breast cancer/reconstruction plastic surgeon in the morning, Wednesday 4/15.

These 5 pound, poisoning my body, way too big fuckers will be coming out — Soon, I hope. It’s medically necessary at this point, the explant surgery that is. I’ll be speaking to her about the DIEP flap method as my stomach looks like a goddamned flying squirrel when viewed in the right angle. Seriously, so thrilled for this virtual-video appointment!!

And finally

A common question everyone is asking each other rn is ‘how are you coping’ and shit with isolation and shit. TBT, my life has not changed. Truly. I’ve been a Virtual Administrative Assistant for six years [diagnosed and worked thru cancer, like a rockstar] and this year my nine year old has been attending the NCVA – North Carolina Virtual Academy – enrolled in the 3rd grade. I shit you not, he is still in school. Well not this week, spring break. But, his education has’t been impacted due to Covid19. His books are home, his classes are video’ed. I’ve been utilizing the grocery store to go/pick up fucker for months now. I’m extremely lucky in these regards. This much I know as well.

We are working on pillows for comfort. If you have an old, beloved tshirt, send it my way – I’ll make ya a snazzy ass pillow.

Taking You Guys On A Trip Down Mindfuck Lane…

I’ve found and saved some amazing af photographs of New York front the 1800’s and shit. Incredible AF to look at – your brainholes will be smiling. And if you’re anything like me, which chances are you are a beautiful fucker [haaha — beautiful fucker, so not hurtful. Quite contrary, in fact], you’ll get lost in some of these.

Fucking, have you ever, in your lifetime imagined what sweet ole #NYC looked like before the concrete weeds. I have too many times. Especially having grown up in Jersey and having the city just a couple hours away. We’d take ferries to visit the Statue of Liberty. At the time, I had no idea my great grandmother, Nammie, who was still alive until my early teens, had actually entered Ellis Island via ship with her parents and two siblings – one of whom lived to be 99 years of age, having just passed a few years ago. So, at age three or so [idk, I’m so bad with facts and shit]. I’ll look at dates. Do my calculations and forget what the fuck I’m working on. Chemo Brain or Tara brain. This is all Tara brain compounded by chemo and the drugs taken during treatment. So Nammie and her family, escape Budapest in the late 1910’s. They settled and primarily stayed in Bernardsville, NJ. Another side note – You used to be able to see the Twin Towers from a road in Bernardsville, called Jacobs Ladder – google that badboy.

If you have a fascination for pictures of cities and shit in the 19th century, please drop a line and share your photos.

So, without further rambling and shit – fuck me dead, tara, ADD much – uh, yeah man. So much ADD’s. All of them. And CTSD – Current Traumatic Stress Disorder. Science. Bitch.

Legend has it, or I shall tell it as…When the Dutch people of the time had to take a mean ass liquor, gamey animal flesh, goddamned berry churning the intestines dump, eat and eventually pitching what would pass as shelter in 1654 [fucking 1654], they named their quaint lil path ‘Bouwerij’, the Dutch word for path, because it connected cattle farms to the outskirts (what is today) to Wall Street. <— And sidenote this foot food was to go below the Bowery ‘Neighborhood’ picture, but my dumb ass can’t figure how to complete this task on my device. And, fucking hell, I see some of my pictures don’t have captions and I left some off. Edits are afoot….