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Dear Internet: Please stop trying to date me.

16 May

If this had happened once, I wouldn’t say anything. Not twice, even. I know this because it has happened way more than once or twice. This is important, though. Please listen up.

Guys and gals of Twitter and whatever else: I’m not going to be your girlfriend.

Is my relationship status necessarily public information? No. Does that (or anything) mean I’m secretly looking for you, someone I interact with occasionally on Twitter, to step in and be the one to experience my Icy Feet of Doom? No.

No one person should feel like this is directed at him/her. We reached a critical mass of this type of attention this week and something had to be said. Now let’s just carry on like normal.

I love you guys. I really do. The chances of it ever being “let’s hop on a plane and lay entwined together on a private beach in the Caribbean” love? Very slim. It’s not worth your hopes.

This is not Allie Brosh’s blog, no matter how many times you search for “allie brosh.”

3 May

Somehow, people get to my blog by searching for Allie Brosh-related terms. I can’t replicate the results to save my life. I’ve listed below everything Allie Brosh-related anyone has ever searched for to get to (except for the one that was a search for Allie Brosh and toasterlicious, which I get), and if anyone can get them to work, I promise cookies. Or at least virtual cuddles.

For comparison, I’ve left in the number of people who search for me to get to my blog, just so you can see why, exactly, I care about this even a little bit. It is funny as hell.

WTF, Internet?

It’s #BoobieWed: Time to Grow—I Mean, Time to Grab a Pair

13 Oct

Other people have written about this (notably Natali, the UberDorkGirlie, and my #HeLP, Ruth), but we all have stories, and the more stories that get out there, the more aware people will be. So here goes.

My strongest feelings about the importance of #BoobieWed, breast cancer awareness, and regular self-exams and screenings may come from the fact that breast cancer has not played an enormous role in my life so far.

When I was eleven, I was brought to the hospital to sit at the bedside of the extraordinary Luther Allison as he slowly, but so slowly, slipped away as the tumor on his brain stem did its work. I held his hand and could not make sense of those long fingers without movement, no longer the genius of a guitar. He could hear me, I was told, but I would get no smile, no teasing about looking just like my mother. That was (at least to begin with) lung cancer, born of years of blues at smoke-level in bars and on concert stages.

My father’s stepmother broke her hip when I was seventeen. She didn’t fall, didn’t run into something; she took a step one day, and her hip fractured. The hospital found that her own years of smoking had begotten tumors that were consuming her body. Time was short.

My sophomore year in college, my friend’s mother’s melanoma returned, ending two years of remission with a diagnosis that left her weeks. Brain lesions. Invisible. Fast. We traveled to New Jersey from Vermont and sat around the family’s kitchen table the night before the funeral while my friend’s father walked around the house like a ghost and we scooped ice cream into bowls like it might somehow numb more than a tongue.

Breast cancer did not kill any of these singular people, nor did it kill another friend’s father, who very happily won that battle. Breast cancer isn’t in any way less serious than lung cancer or melanoma, but you can check yourself for it. I cannot palpate my bones to any real effect, nor can I peer inside my own skull or lungs, but I can grab a feel and know my body as very best I can.

This Right Here's a Female's Chest

Know your body, love yourself, and don’t let the world miss you any earlier than it has to.