Quoth Lance Armstrong, "There's something disquieting about knowing something is growing inside your head."

And it's disquieting when you don't know for sure. My mom would like me to live inside a Magnetic Resonance Imager, if they could invent a micro one that I could just wear as a sassy baseball cap.

At one-and-a-half years post-op, I moved to Atlantic City. Alone. What kind of hair-brained notion was that? The job was good, I was just extremely lonely and terrified of the Jersey Devil. At five-and-a-half years post-op, I can't drive alone.

My housemate Brent told me, at about two months post-op, "It's a discredit to all your hard work that you look so good." And that was with a G.I. Jane haircut. Not a pretty girl, people.

I don't know what's going to happen today. It isn't time yet for an annual scan, but there have been too many grand and petit mal seizures over the last several months. Perhaps I'll learn that I just really can't handle stress anymore, which would be total Buffalo Biscuits (thanks for that phrase, Brian Kendall), because everyone who knows me knows I can handle everything. At the same time. To be honest with you, I'm really looking forward to 3:00, so I can take a nap inside the MRI machine.