I'm writing this for the same reason anyone writes a blog, which is namely that I am unemployed and irritable from being a student too long. Also I lost my digital camera cord.
So I started drawing these to reassure my friends back home that I'm alive and moving around and stuff. Also to track changes in my haircolor, which for some reason, they exhibited interest in. I had never colored my hair until I got my first colon surgery, which I was positive I would not come back from. I'm a Debbie Downer like that. I'm getting ahead of myself but only a little, so bear with me. These past few months are the first time in my adult life I've been healthy. Well, healthy for me. For about six years, which is a large fraction of your life at twenty four, I had drug-resistant and for the most part life-ruining Ulcerative Colitis, which is a nasty disease with way too descriptive a name, and makes your colon feel like a horrible thing is living in you, like this:
And which makes you look like a flesh-colored lollipop from time to time, as you lose weight from constant pooping and your face balloons up with steroid weight. That isn't happening anymore. Which is odd. See, when you spend so much of your time sick, like I did, you get used to the uphill fight, and start to define yourself by it. "Ahh, I could have graduated with honors, but I was sick. I could have gotten published as an undergraduate, but I was sick...could have traveled, but you know, my colon..." And next thing you know, I don't have much of an identity outside of being sick. But here goes. This is kind of about me building my life back after a major life change. This is kind of about me learning to live as a diaspora Appalachian in the big city. This is kind of about love and honor and pity and pride and compassion. But mostly bad MS paint drawings. And dumb puns my boyfriend tells me. Here's a picture of us:
I can say with confidence that Ted is probably the best person to live since Ghandi. I mean that. He read the same book to me 3 times while I was in the hospital because I was too high to remember, he takes the cat box out without being asked and he doesn't judge me when I declare life too difficult to attempt living every month around the 13th. I mean, look at him. I was drawing a picture of our apartment, which I am told , is a Children's book come to life, but it was really hard, and I started feeling guilty that I wasn't able to include all the plants, and didn't want to hurt anyone' feelings. Here's a picture of the only one (out of the 20) that has a people name
