breast mice
This is the only day this week where I don't have an early morning doctor's appointment/lecture/artist talk/group crit. So I've rewarded myself with a lie in and internet whoring from the comfort of jack's bed.
Seriously, my diary is packed (I know, I've got a diary, what the fuck?). It's unbearable, I miss being the lazy one who turned up when she felt like it and whacked out a few paintings. Now I've realised that I actually have to do some work. I'm even joining a temp agency in a month or so in the attempt to make some money when the summer approaches, the student loan dissappears and I can't afford rent.
Went to the docs on wednesday about the lumpy tit. FINALLY they seem to be taking me seriously (last doc's reaction was "oh you're only 20, oh it was only your mum that died from it, I dunno, come back in a month or something?") I've been refered to a breast screening clinic, which means geting my baps out again. I'm so fed up of getting my bits out for doctors to scrutinise, I haven't even started complaining about the 'vaginal probe scan'. VAGINAL PROBE. urgh, you just know that's what I'm thinking when me and the better half "make love".
yeah, that's another thing, the "dynamic" in our "relationship" has changed so it's no longer fucking, it's "making love". What the hell has happened to me since moving up here? In Brighton you'd never have caught me with a week to view diary chatting about making love to my, dare I say it, Partner. I think it's called growing up. good grief.
So, docs. He was a squat, old welsh man, who didn't wear gloves. It was different to the last examination as I was sat upright in front of him, bra round my waist, shirt on the floor, old guy grabbing at the goods. This isn't the first time this has happened to me but was the first time it happened on the NHS. After having a good squeeze he then lectured me on his history of medicine and the history of breast cancer treatments and told me I had something called a "breast mouse", which is a lump that moves about when trying to get hold of it. No promises were made that it wasn't anything serious, most likely a cyst that'll be drained, and he refered me to the magic-see-insidey-boobies-place. All of this was said with discreet downward looks at my now covered tits. "I'd like to see you in 3 weeks" he says. I bet you fucking would.
So apart from that and the occasional bursts of emotion, things are AOK. I'm working on a painting for jack's 21st which is probably my favourite bit of work done this year so far. picture up here when it's ready.
Also I'm going to be in an exhibition in the Camberwell SU bar soon whith some other nice chaps on my course. No idea what to show but we'll cross that bridge hen we come to it eh? So when it is sorted, come on down to our crappy SU (you know, that bit of the canteen they've roped off an stuck a sofa in, fucking camberwell) and gaze at my VISION OF FINE ART.
Is Goody dead yet?
Seriously, my diary is packed (I know, I've got a diary, what the fuck?). It's unbearable, I miss being the lazy one who turned up when she felt like it and whacked out a few paintings. Now I've realised that I actually have to do some work. I'm even joining a temp agency in a month or so in the attempt to make some money when the summer approaches, the student loan dissappears and I can't afford rent.
Went to the docs on wednesday about the lumpy tit. FINALLY they seem to be taking me seriously (last doc's reaction was "oh you're only 20, oh it was only your mum that died from it, I dunno, come back in a month or something?") I've been refered to a breast screening clinic, which means geting my baps out again. I'm so fed up of getting my bits out for doctors to scrutinise, I haven't even started complaining about the 'vaginal probe scan'. VAGINAL PROBE. urgh, you just know that's what I'm thinking when me and the better half "make love".
yeah, that's another thing, the "dynamic" in our "relationship" has changed so it's no longer fucking, it's "making love". What the hell has happened to me since moving up here? In Brighton you'd never have caught me with a week to view diary chatting about making love to my, dare I say it, Partner. I think it's called growing up. good grief.
So, docs. He was a squat, old welsh man, who didn't wear gloves. It was different to the last examination as I was sat upright in front of him, bra round my waist, shirt on the floor, old guy grabbing at the goods. This isn't the first time this has happened to me but was the first time it happened on the NHS. After having a good squeeze he then lectured me on his history of medicine and the history of breast cancer treatments and told me I had something called a "breast mouse", which is a lump that moves about when trying to get hold of it. No promises were made that it wasn't anything serious, most likely a cyst that'll be drained, and he refered me to the magic-see-insidey-boobies-place. All of this was said with discreet downward looks at my now covered tits. "I'd like to see you in 3 weeks" he says. I bet you fucking would.
So apart from that and the occasional bursts of emotion, things are AOK. I'm working on a painting for jack's 21st which is probably my favourite bit of work done this year so far. picture up here when it's ready.
Also I'm going to be in an exhibition in the Camberwell SU bar soon whith some other nice chaps on my course. No idea what to show but we'll cross that bridge hen we come to it eh? So when it is sorted, come on down to our crappy SU (you know, that bit of the canteen they've roped off an stuck a sofa in, fucking camberwell) and gaze at my VISION OF FINE ART.
Is Goody dead yet?