The (mis)adventures of Super-S

Hey! What’s up? I don’t even know who I’m talking to because I’m fairly certain no one reads this anymore, especially not after my more than month long absence in which all there was to read was some depressing crap about how I’ve learned to stop being an angsty teenage girl and love my parents.

About that - all’s well. Turns out that the cancerous tumor my dad was diagnosed with? Did not exist. After tests by two separate doctors at the Cleveland Clinic my father was told “No cancer.” Which, hurray! But also, I feel so bad for all those poor Egyptians who have no option but to go by the shitty diagnoses they get from the so-called best doctors in the country.

I also alluded to some boy trouble, which I think for now has been resolved.

So, on to my next whine - I’m sick! I’ve pretty much been lounging around in bed for the past 16 hours, and I have no immediate plans to leave. I’m also too proud to make a big deal out of this (at least to anyone who can do anything about it), so even though I sound, look, and feel horrible I am trying to proceed as normal. My friend, Bryn, messaged me earlier this morning to confirm plans for later this evening (we’re going to a fancy pub called The Parlour), and I didn’t have the heart to ask her if we could postpone till next weekend. And even though SuperM just called me asking if I want him to come over now or closer to dinner time I did not say what I really wanted, which is that I want him over NOW, NOW, NOW and I want him (or anyone really) to stroke my hair and say soothing things like my mother used to when I was little and would whine, “Mommy, I feel so baaad. Can’t I just cut off my head and get a new one??”

So there you have it. My solution is to sulk in bed while simultaneously refusing to acknowledge that I don’t just have the sniffles but a full blown cold. And occasionally I wipe my nose on my pillow (my one luxury purchase upon moving to Belfast was buying a set of soft, soft flannel sheets) because my nose is raw from the toilet paper I’ve been using to blow it.

I’ve also been spending some time contemplating this photograph, from the Fug Girls’ site:

I mean, how much must it suck for Rumer to be out-beautyed and out-classed by her 40-something mother? And seriously, the age difference between them? Does not seem that big. (On the other hand, rock on, Demi.)

I remember when I was 10 my uncle married his gorgeous German girlfriend, who used to rollerblade (this was the late 80s, people) around the neighborhood in her hot pink short shorts and white tank top. She used to rollerblade right past my crush’s house, and I so wanted her to just maybe stay away from that side of the neighborhood, but obviously I couldn’t actually ask her to do that. And on top of being gorgeous she was super-friendly and sweet and warm and had graduated at the top of her class in medical school. But, I mean, at least she’s had the decency to grow into an attractive(-for-her-age) 40-something who now thinks I’M the pretty, smart, successful one.

But Rumer? I get the awful impression that she’s going to be in competition with her mother for a while to come.