Discombobulated


  1. (o)(o)

    It’s not fair.

    Others get broken legs or arms mauled by albino tigers or Ebola virus or Zigzag Throat (if you’re a dragon, and yes you need to brush up on your Terry Pratchett references). In Australia, apparently, it’s traditional to try to put out fires with one’s hands. But that’s Australians for you. For all of these you get to see their painful, gruesomely fascinating progress in photos here. Day by day, gradually healing skin and magical surgical contraptions and returning flexion in knees. You get to see it all.

    But me? You know my story. I’ve told you and shown you how I’ve felt about it. I’ve had a seriously holy shit hardcore time in hospital (out tomorrow, whee!) but I have had a masterpiece of surgery - A FUCKING MASTERPIECE. In two months you won’t be able to see one scar or tell that one of my bosoms has ever been within a yard of a scalpel. Seriously, it’s like magic. The thigh has a kind of rakish James Bond villain scar thing going on, so it’s pretty great too. I’m hobbling and in pain still and I will be for weeks but its all good. I feel so relieved and happy. And thank you so much everyone for all the support and emails and stories and messages. I will get round to answering y’all in the end. I love you.

    But I can’t show you my wonderful stuff on the Internet like other folks can. I mean, I could. The Internet was practically invented for the sharing of pictures of breasts, amirite? But not mine.

    So I won’t.

    (but they’re so beautiful and perfectly matching)

    I can’t.

    (really, really beautiful)

    I won’t.

    (as beautiful as they’ve ever been, and it could be all black and white and tasteful-like)

    So I won’t.

    OR WILL I?