Oncology with Cigarettes

I decided to dry my alcoholic ass out this week and let my fever break and let my cough turn into a mere hack instead of a deep lung cancerish cry for help. Although I'm still addicted to Advil Cold and Sinus and now, Mucinex, I feel ready for round two three four and five of my big city manifestations and adventures. I just hope I eat enough before I violently chug a bottle of Grey Goose this weekend.

Suck-my-face Kosovo Club Boy has been calling and texting me and asking me out every day. He's such a genuinely cuddly sweetheart but now I know he really likes me and that means I can't like him because, well, where's the challenge?

My favorite phrase is "Ignore Me and I'm Yours."

I met him for a Frappucino yesterday and it almost seemed like our electric chemistry had subsided.

My gay male Broadway singer roommate told me my problem with men is that I subconsciously feel sorry for them when they like me or are frustrated by me so I become too nice with them. The men take this as reinforcement and continue to ask me out and I can't say no because I feel guilty and I don't want to hurt anyone but I still really want to have a lot of unadulterated wild sex but the problem is...I just can't.

I think my delicate heart strings are too intimately intertwined with my vagina.

After the awkward Starbucks rendezvous, I came back to my desk at work feeling a bit perplexed. Why did I have to feel so awkwardly weird? Why couldn't I just treat him as a cool new friend I had met? For some reason the thought of licking his face endlessly began to make me feel ashamed, like a trashy filthy dirty whore.

At that moment, as I was thinking about volunteering to feed the homeless to compensate for my drunken sexual guilt, my matchmaker phoned me.

She told me a "very very very" successful clinical oncologist who is half-Italian "really really really" wanted to meet me. He's apparently 37 with brown hair and brown eyes and he's 5'10" which really means he's probably 5'8".

"Well, can I see a photo?" I asked her eagerly.

"We have to respect the privacy of our clients, so, I'm sorry sweetie, but we have to keep everything strictly off-line," she said, ever so politely.

I guess if I paid $200,000 to a matchmaker I wouldn't want my photos splashed everywhere either.

The clinical oncologist, let's call him Cancer Boy for short, called me one hour later. He sounded a bit dry, straightforward, sort of like, "Hey, this dating stuff is serious business and I need to find a wife who can breed asap."

But on a contradictory note, he also sounded really intelligent and nice. I'm meeting him Tuesday at some Italian trattoria.

What if I get there and he's fugly? Surely my matchmaker would at least pair me off with someone remotely attractive?

On my commute this morning I began to look at every guy with "brown hair and brown eyes." One guy had no chin, protruding bug eyes and a red mole on his neck. The next guy had flaky pale skin, a booger hanging out of his nose and bifocals so thick I thought they were windows.

Then, I suddenly realized that this apparent match is an oncologist. Did I mention to the matchmaker that I have the tendency to chain smoke like a chimney especially when I'm roaring drunk? Oh, and that I also burn myself to a crisp in an artificial tanning bed twice a week?

I'm from Texas.

And, that I think the Western approach to medicine is overly, ragingly, blindingly violent? If the cancer doesn't kill you, it's guaranteed that the chemotherapy and the endless rounds of toxic, bitter radiation will send you swiftly over the edge.

I'm more into the Eastern, non-intrusive holistic approach to medicine, even though I poison myself with carbon monoxide and potent UV rays on a regular basis.

Surely these could be only minor discrepancies that could emerge with Cancer Boy?

Suddenly the idea of a highly intoxicated make-out session with Kosovo Club Boy followed by a thick pack of cigarettes doesn't sound so bad...