This time last year

Last year, my birthday sucked so bad.  I was admitted to the hospital two days before my birthday and was discharged from the joint, er, hospital on my actual birthday.  Once I got home and settled with my boyfriend and puppy pupperson, I was a tired and drugged out girl.  I think my 31st birthday consisted of pain killers, a hoarse voice, and maybe a pay-per-view movie.  

This year I'm no longer bald, plus the scar on my neck is nicely fading.  I don't look like I have a vagina on my neck.  Last year, I would look in the mirror and cringe because I was bald with a vagina neck.  Now, I'm actually looking in the mirror and nodding back in approval.  Go hair go!  You're growing in nicely and oh so lovely.  I'm not quite pleased with the neck down, but neck up...  Aokay!

I'm so excited to be spending my birthday in a nice, sunny area.  I want to have a drink or two with my boyfriend and listen to the water on my birthday.  So far, my 30s have been sucktactular, but I'll be able to say 32 was awesome.  This is going to be the year where I say, "I spent my birthday on a beach, AND I had a surgery to reduce my risk of breast cancer by 95 percent."  

I also plan on going skydiving with the boyfriend sometime before my surgery.  I refuse to let 32 suck.  It's not going to suck.  

It.

Is.

Going.

To.

Rock.

The morning of my 31st birthday, I woke up in a hospital room with an 80-something old woman named Gertie who wouldn't stop yelling at the nurses.  I'm going to wake up on my 32nd birthday and make my way to the beach.

Motherfucking yeah.