The thing about my current fake boob is this:

I am confused about cleaning it.

I cant wait until the silicone is inside my body and I don’t have to open my browser and Google, “how to clean prosthetic breast”

But I just did that and now that I’m sure I’m doing it correctly, I won’t have to Google it again.


Mastectomy bras offer absolutely no discretion when it comes to the nipple. However, my fake one doesn’t HAVE a nipple so I have walked around for months now with lopsided nipples. Im sure people think I just have one nipple that is over active. On the other hand, when I see a woman with one active nipple, now I just assume that she, like me, has a dumb mastectomy bra on and her fake boobie doesn’t have a nipple either.

Do they even make them with nipples?

How many times can I type that word in one post??

Anyway, Im off to wash my fake boob.


PS If you need a good strapless or multi-way bra for your prostetic boob, and- like me- you cant find a good mastectomy one, Victoria’s Secret‘s new Body by Victoria line has a really great multi way bra that holds the boob in really well and curves around it naturally. There is no ‘drop off’ effect and I have no worries that the boob is going to go flying through the air, like it tends to do when Im not wearing a mastectomy bra!


A Homeless Man in an Armani Suit

I studied Art (and Art History) in school. Initially, I went for Photography. I thought I’d be a photojournalist, because I could write fairly well, most days (and really well when the mood struck). Because of my extra passion for words, I ended up with an accidental English minor (apparently common).

However, I lost it. Not the minor in English, but IT. The big unexplainable IT.

I started to resent my camera. I realized that, and thought I’d ‘take a break’. That was in 2007. I haven’t done anything ‘real’ with my camera since; though, I did get ‘it’ back in 2008.

It’s okay, though. In this time, I’ve really taken to painting and figure drawing and I’ve gotten back into writing (not just blogging; though, I guess it counts).

If there is one thing in life that I understand it is the idea of a catharsis act.

I had such a bad day yesterday that I can’t help thinking about these things. These wonderful loves of mine. Today, I sat here on the couch and thought, in great detail, about idea behind Dürer’s etching, Knight, Devil and Death. I mean, it’s right there on the wall in our apartment, but mostly I walk past it every day and give it little thought. I really, really enjoyed it, though. I even went and pulled out an old art history book when I couldn’t remember something. I didn’t Google it! It was pleasant to find a little marker for it, as well.  I like when little things like that happen.

My love of Art is no secret. It’s something people I never talked to in high school still know about me.

What fewer people know about is this: I love to volunteer with the homeless. I love to not volunteer with the homeless and just bring blankets or leave my to-go box with them. I love to talk to them and some people that know me will even tell you that this paid off for me (because in all of my years in the city, I walked to and from work alone. Or to and from the bar alone. And I was never, ever hurt. I’ve even had a homeless man buy me a soda.).

No one wants to feel cast off. Sure, I avoid some of those men like the plague. But I wouldn’t know which ones to avoid had I not paid attention; had I not had conversations with a few good men. I mean, I may be kind, but I’m not naive.

In comparison, what I do now in my life is the opposite of that volunteer work.

That’s why all of this came up. I had a horrible day and in thinking of everything that went wrong and really delving into self deprecation, I caught myself thinking about how different it is to give a homeless man somewhere to sleep, shower or eat than to help someone else.

Homeless people are nicer, more grateful people than the people I encounter at work. I honestly think that. Sure, you get the stray feather in both groups. But I prefer the rancid smell of an unwashed, grateful man to the smell of expensive perfume on a rancid bitch. Pardon my language.

I had a horrible day yesterday because I don’t have the patience for ungratefulness or insults that I pretend to have. I will take criticism- if there is anything an art student knows how to take, it is criticism. But don’t call me a liar. Don’t insult my integrity. Yes, I can be rather thick skinned but that is just lost on me right now. I made the comparison, recently, that I feel as emotional as a pregnant woman. The only universally hyper emotional thing I could think of to compare myself to…   This is not just maturity and gratitude when something good happens. Or a few tears over dead flowers. This is real, uncontrollable emotion and I’m not depressed. I’m just… tender… about the things I hold dear (like my integrity or you know, ME).

Will that ever go back to normal? Because my response yesterday was less than pleasant and I just said, ‘I don’t have the time or the patience to be called a liar by anyone, or to deal with this shit.’ It was essentially a breakdown, which I would usually feel bad and embarrassed about… but I don’t.  Either way, I just want to go back to hiding my emotional capacity.

I don’t know… I guess I was just looking for a homeless man in an Armani suit, yesterday.

I’m including a link to a beautiful little story and video that will make you want to go touch the person you love most. Watch it, because it will improve your day: