(Updated to replace that really annoying picture I originally had and also to include a few obsessive edits and rewrites. I edit every post about 25 times, I'm not kidding.)
Yeah, my AV is a mess. Are you surprised? Sorry about that. I found this bloody corset when I was trying (crying) to thin down my inventory. I got it when I was a noob. The store is now gone. Or at least I can't find it. (Skin: Sofia Scars by Glam Affair at The Dressing Room, 70L; Hair: Lourdes in Chocolate [NEW] by Truth.)
And that Lucky Numbers tattoo?
"The numbers are good!"
Like many people, I'm mourning the loss of "Lost" in my life, so I was really excited to find this Lucky Numbers tattoo (100L) at LuNi Designs. It also comes in a bloody carved version.
Speaking of the "Lost" finale, I belong to the "Seriously? Are you KIDDING me?" camp.
This short, awesome clip sums up why:
Thank you, my brothers and sisters in the land of "Dear Lost, I have been a little bit upset ever since you jacked around with poor Walt and now I am 10 times as irritated."
("What is the deal with Kate and that horse?!")
Anyway, moving on . . .
Someone crashed my parcel while I was offline, helped themselves to the "Edit Terrain" button and turned it into a 9,000-foot high "Close Encounters of the Third Kind"-looking thing.
(Hey everybody, if you rent or own land, be sure to unclick the little box that allows visitors to edit your terrain.)
The thing that sucks the most is that I was so freaked and confused when I logged into that mess, I didn't take a picture. So here's a picture I drew:
Yeah, mainly I was screaming for help and "Where the hell is my house??" AND THE BUNNY! The Bunny was, of course, gone.
My landlady came to the rescue and helped bring my land down from outer space . . . but my furniture and stuff, sigh. A lot of it had gone off-world and ended up back in my lost-and-found folder. I found The Bunny there too. Thank God.
Whatever. I was planning on packing it all up anyway.
I found everything else floating around in weird places on the island. It was fun.
To be honest, once I got over the shock I couldn't stop laughing. Well played, Griefer . . . or Friend with Sick Sense of Humor.
Let's switch topics. It's been a while since I've said:
"HEY, COOL AV, MAN!" (GIRL!)
I saw this chick floating around at Botanical and snapped her picture. She's gorgeous.
If anyone knows her, please let her know that I'm running a Big Damn Picture of her on my blog. If it upsets her, I'll remove it. (It would have been nice if I would have paid attention to her NAME.)
Hey, that hair looks familiar!
(I like to blatantly break up big blocks of text with pictures that have nothing at all to do with the blog post.)
So yeah, along with logging in to find my land in outer space, I had a Weird Wednesday.
A couple of weeks ago -- in the cold, real world -- I went to the dermatologist to beg for Retin-A. While I was there, she noticed a freckle on my back that "concerned" her. Before I could yell, "But wait! I'm just here to talk about the global elimination of crows' feet!" she was jabbing a needle in my back and slicing off the freckle with a scalpel.
Whatever. I finally left armed with wrinkle cream. Mission accomplished.
I forgot about the freckle until I got An Ominous Phone Call about it Wednesday. I guess it's more than just a freckle. I guess it's a dysplastic nevus. That means that ONCE A-FRIGGIN'-GAIN some cells in my body have decided to go a little renegade. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I got so sad in 2008 that when the grief finally departed, it left a trail of anguished, twisted cells in its wake. I'm tired of doctors talking about my cells like they're hostile aliens. It gets old after about ONE time.
I guess I have to go in for a minor outpatient procedure, during which they'll take tissue samples from all around and under the spot where the Not-Really-A-Freckle lived. They want to map out my abnormal cell invasion, find all the places that don't measure up to the standards of happy, functioning cells and cut them all out before they morph into something more monstrous. (I'm not adding a sentence about also checking to make sure some of them haven't already morphed into something more monstrous because we're SO NOT GOING THERE, right? RIGHT.)
Afterward, my back is going to be a scarred, cut-up mess. Or at least that's how my way-too-vivid imagination sees it. There will be stitches. There will be painkillers. Can I please just have them now?
(This corset lacing is really part of . . . a corset! What a surprise! It's not a piercing — it was part of a hunt prize.)
When I got this news, I got all freaked and emotional and scared and angry and started wondering just HOW MUCH MORE of my body is going to get carved up in the Relentless Pursuit of Cancer. Our AVs get to have flawless skin in SL if we want them to. But in real life . . . damn, go get your freckles checked. What the hell -- I was just minding my own business, bitching about wrinkles and pushing 40, and now this? I feel like I just got Punked.
I posted something on Facebook, but sometimes the people on Facebook irritate me. If I'm upset about something, I really don't want 200 people popping up and offering solutions to my problems or fluffy words of comfort and prayer. I don't want to hear, "This is no big deal" or "This happened to my dad and it was nothing" or "Don't overreact" or my all-time favorite, "God knows what He's doing."
If I say "FML, that frakkin' freckle turned out to be Bad News," the only words I really want to hear are: "Damn, That Sucks."
Either join me in righteous anger or go away.
Then I thought, getting emo and wigged-out over a wonky freckle really doesn't honor all the people out there who are fighting huge, painful, sometimes seemingly hopeless battles with Bonafide In-Your-Face, No-Doubt-About-It Cancer.
Frankly my freckle is just that: a tiny speck in a vast battlefield in a Big Damn War Against Cancer. And to those brave people on the front lines, I just want to offer my big, loud angry
"HELL YEAH, THAT SUCKS."
The Dressing Room