Zach Conversations

He said he loved me.

Was this during sex? Because chicks yell out “OH GOD” and “OH DADDY” while I’m fuckin’ ’em and I really doubt they think I’m either of those things. If so… well, we have bigger problems than America’s education system.

I wanna go somewhere… Take a vacation from the bullshit.

I like going on vacation with girls that don’t get tan lines… If you know what I mean.

I think I have cancer.

Shit, seriously? Eh, just think of it like I do STDs. If I have the clap and I don’t know about it, it’s the same as not having it.

PSA: If you see a 6’1″ blonde dude who drinks too much and always wears muscle tees and tank tops, don’t have sex with him.

I’m Legally Dead to Gold’s Gym; Phone Call Valentine

Today was interesting.

I had to attend to some business in regards to my godparents’ old house in Glen Burnie. I think the matter could’ve been handled via e-mail, but my godparents wanted eyes on the ground, so they sent me as an attack dog. It was easy stuff, and I fed the foxes that used to chill out with me on the back porch. They looked thin. I don’t think the new owners feed them at all. Poor Scarlet and Silver.

Anyhow, I went to the mall that’s about a mile from the house. I used to work out at a Gold’s Gym situated inside that shit hole. I walked inside and asked about reactivating an old membership. They asked for a name.

Me: Jessica Fizz.

Desk Person: Oh, it looks like she’s no longer with us.

Me: Is there any way to come back?

Desk Person: …she passed away.

Lemme rewind.

About two years ago, my sister, Ellie, and I went to the Gold’s Gym and tried to cancel my membership. I had tried to cancel it before while I was in Korea, but they were very uncooperative and I was miffed at the whole situation. When Ellie and I walked in, again, they were pretty unhelpful and wouldn’t just stop my damned payments… so I broke out the big guns.

Me: Listen… I have terminal cancer and won’t be around pretty soon. I wanted to get a few of these little things out of the way so my family won’t have to deal with it after I’m gone.

Desk Person: Hahaha! …ohmigod. Are you serious? I’m so sorry. Let me get on that right away.

Ellie: *whisper* Jess, I can’t believe you just did that.


Anyhow, I high-tailed it out of there before they could put two and two together and see that Jessica Fizz is very much alive and well and told a rather large lie. Whatever. I can go back to LA Fitness. They have a pool.

I also received a random phone call today from a number I didn’t recognize. I picked up and was greeted by a fella telling me Happy Valentine’s Day.

We live in some desperate times, folks. You know how I know? I talked to this guy (his name is Nick, he’s 34, and he’s a programmer out in San Francisco) for over an hour about the most random shit. He was filing his income tax when he called, so when he got busy rifling through his papers, he put on a podcast for me about James Blunt sounding like a chicken. Afterwards I asked him to make chicken squawks. He did.

I heard some drilling sounds coming from his side of the telephone; I asked him if he was murdering someone. He laughed and said he was scanning all of his paper work and shredding them afterwards. Apparently he finds it wonderful tidying things up; he even told me how he mopped his house yesterday.

There was definitely a lot of flirty talk too (it’s fucking Valentine’s Day), and I have to admit, I liked the attention. Then he sent me some topless photos while telling me about this online banking website that sounds like the bee’s knees ( The dude is sculpted. I sent him a photo of me in a dress. He said he’d like to fuck me in a dressing room or in the library while I’m studying. I blushed and had to pull the phone away from my face because the heat was too much.

I told him I had to go for a run. He said he liked talking with me and that he’d call again.

I dunno how this kind of shit happens to me. I reckon one of the guys wrote my number on a bathroom stall somewhere… or posted it on the Internet.



Biopsy Results

Benign. Negative. I’m not gonna die. Well, I’m not gonna die from cancer on my lady bits.

I called my mom and told her the good news.

Me: I don’t have cancer.

Mum:  Wat?

Me: The tests were negative.


I guess my father, in his infinite wisdom, decided to not tell my mom I was going in for a cancer biopsy (she’s really, really bad at handling this kind of news).

Cat’s out of the bag now. I mean, the cat shouldn’t be out of the bag considering it’s all said and done and I still have my skin, but my mother, being the epitome of the typical, spastic woman, went through an entire drama in her head about my dying of cancer. “Why didn’t you tell Mommy about this, Jecca?!” I guess I should cut her some slack. She went through a similar ordeal but tested positive. She was at death’s doorstep and is very fortunate to be among the living.

I feel for my old man… He’s gonna be in SO MUCH SHIT when he gets home from work.

After she was finished freaking out she wanted to talk about cervical cancer and STDs…

You not having sex widda boy so you don’ have to worry abou’ dat… RIGHT, JESHKA?!

The only proper response for the question above.

I don’t know how to tell her…

I Want the Sun to Rise

I have a hard time forgetting people. Sometimes I wish I could wipe my memory clean; I wouldn’t care so much about things that shouldn’t matter anymore. I’d get more sleep, but I think I’d know something was missing.

That’s a lie. I’d still lose sleep.

I’d go insane because I’d miss someone I had no recollection of. I’d be empty and not know why.

Cut out the cancer. Give me a pill. Blind me. Hobble me. Flay the skin from my back. Take my hands from my wrists. Insanity doesn’t suit me.

Take this evening. It is one of many more to come. I never fall asleep before I fall apart. But please flee my mind by sunrise.

I’ve been sitting, watching life pass from the sidelines. Been waiting for a dream to seep in through my blinds. I wondered what might happen if I left this all behind. Would the wind be at my back? Could I get you off my mind this time?

Lunch Conversation: We Fuck

I was eating an old, shitty buffalo chicken wrap when my buddy Robbie sat down to join me. He’s a good kid. Smart, funny, tans gorgeously, tall, muscled, and incredibly gay.

While we were eating, one of my regulars at the gym, Raymond, stopped to chat with me. He had Hodgkin’s Lymphoma so I confided in him when I found out I may also have cancer; he checks in on me to make sure I’m okay. Did I mention he’s a sweetheart?

Anyhow, I thought Robbie might be crushing on Raymond so I figured I’d poke a little fun at him.

Robbie: Jess, how do you know Raymond?

Me: We fuck.

I found out Robbie’s hard to read. Couldn’t tell if he was jealous or not. Or maybe he knows who I share my bed with. He did pretty much live across the hall from me.

Robbie: 1, Jess: 0

Results Are In…Sorta

My doc left a message for me while I was getting ready for the day.

I need more tests.

There are a few options as to why I need to have more metal instruments shoved up my vag:

  1. My primary physician is unaware that that I had the biopsy already and is trying to set up another appointment. Fat chance; you can look that up in CHCSII or AHLTA, the online medical file programs the military uses.
  2. The people at the lab fucked up or lost the specimen and need another sample. It happens.
  3. They found something bad and want to run the tests again because they’re in denial. Shit happens.

I’ve worked in hospitals for several years. I’ve seen all of the above. 

I just don’t like that he used the phrase “discuss the options.” That makes me feel like my stomach is gonna fall outta my ass… Or my lady bits slip out from between my legs.

Whatever man.

I guess I’ll just have to white knuckle it for a little while longer.