Cancer Anger

I stop my black, Ford pick- up truck at the red light. I take a deep breath in and think about how amazingly strong I am. I am calm, I haven’t gone crazy, and I am so good at dealing with what has been given to me. I smile. I look in the rear view mirror, and see a beautiful, voluptuous blonde in a Beamer stopped behind me. She is looking in her rear view mirror, fluffing her long, luxurious locks of hair. She turns her head to one side, then the other so that she gets a good look at her glowing beauty. I sigh, and catch a glimpse of my own reflection in my mirror. My head wrap has slipped up. How long has it been like that? I wonder. I pull it down to cover my bald head. I look at the lit cigarette in my hand and flick it out the truck window. I see the nasty butt flying through the air, into the Beamer and landing on the bleached-blonde, bimbo’s hair. Poof. Her hair ignites. Flames shoot up. She is no longer admiring her beauty, as she tries to put the flames of her hair out. Her face is contorted in pain. Maybe I should help her. Nah, that is what the bleached-blonde bimbo in the Beamer deserves.

A blaring car horn snaps me from my reverie. I look in the mirror and see bimbo babe impatiently giving me hand gestures to move. I take a deep breath in. yes, I am handling this breast cancer quite well.

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