But I digress. I must release the nagging Catholic within me and confess. I am filled with some sort of newly brewed rage. I am going to go ahead and blame the steroids that are being pumped into me--because steroids are my go-to for blaming anything that is wrong in my life. I've put on 16 pounds since my cancer diagnosis--it's the steroids' fault. Can't sleep at night--steroids. Muscle spasms and night sweats? Roids. I'm terrible at cornhole. You know whose fault that is...the beers. Which by the way I have not been able to enjoy since my 40th birthday. Another thing that makes me mad.
Mad. Ticked. Irritated. Apoplectic. Fit to be tied. Roid Rager. All words that can be used to describe me on days that end in Y. Not all day, my cheesed off thoughts happen in bursts. Usually when someone does something really annoying. Like walking too loud on the tile floor. Or asking me if I want a sandwich. Or putting lettuce on aforementioned sandwich. Or when I run out of floss. Obviously this is some seriously serious stuff. And the people closest to me take the brunt of my acrimonious attitude. I do my best to suppress it, but sometimes it comes bubbling out. Usually in the form of silence. Because I don't like yelling or fighting. And sometimes it takes the form of watery eyes, because I am so upset over something that is so stupid, and I know it's stupid, and then I get mad at myself for being so stupid!
The bottom line is that the combination of steroids and hormones have put my brain out of whack. And I hate it. I mean if I am going to be mad, I should be mad about having to go through all of this cancer malarkey, not because I stepped on a toothpaste cap in the bathroom. But alas, that is what is happening. So my apologies in advance if I give you the stink eye for taking up too much room in the Target Dollar Spot with your cart. Just know that I am 'roid raging and that deep down I want to throat punch you for spending too much time in front of the mini dry erasers that teachers love.
Oh, and the number one thing that makes me spiral out of control is when folks put their pictures into collages. Seriously. Stop using that god forsaken app. I can't blow the pictures up when I am looking at them on Facebook. So irritating because I can't see ANY of the pictures well. Just. Stop.
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Ohio State 1994-1995. Tracy, Rachel.Cyndi, Erin, me, Leslie. Probably pregaming for dancing at Not Al's or Sloopy's. And my jean vest is now back in style. 
Me a week ago. Raging because they were out of butterscotches. But not because I have tubes coming out of my chest. Priorities.
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