SHORT:
I hate when people say “love is love” – I’m like yeah and “tuna is tuna”. Congrats, genius.
MEDIUM:
I have no spine. I know this because I went to Dave and Busters every weekend for a year with my ex girlfriend. People talk about Disney Gays™️, but no one everrrrr talks about Dave and Busters Lesbians ©️. I’d sit by the shooter games and watch her blast helicopters out of the sky and wish that the fake gun was real and that she’d just shoot me in the head. One time we were holding hands and a woman told us that “we were going to hell” and I was like “look around lady, we’re already here. 10 grown men are trying to win an inflatable minion.”
The chips are good though. If you have no spine and your girlfriend makes you go to Dave and Busters every weekend for a year make sure you at least get the chips. They’ve got a real nice crunch to them.
LONG:
I got my tits cut off in September. It’s been really great for me, because now when I get catcalled, I immediately know if the dude is a “tits or ass” kind of guy. I don’t love getting catcalled, but once a guy on 39th street screamed “You have a wedgie and you need to fix it!” and it turns out he was correct, so I always keep an open mind when men yell at me… they could be looking out for my ass in the benevolent sense of the phrase.
Tit surgery requires a lot of pre-op appointments. I am not good at doctor’s appointments. Ever since I was a child, I’d grow queasy when entering a medical space, often fainting in the waiting room before the appointment even begins. I am also not good at the smalltalk of it all. Last year at the dentist, the hygienist told me that I looked like The Angel Gabriel. I thanked her profusely and left happy as a clam. Then I googled The Angel Gabriel and it turns out that he was biblically ugly. It literally says in the bible “Daniel saw the face of the Angel Gabriel and fell over because of how ugly he was.” So I now refuse to go to the dentist. It’s ok though, my bodega man still calls me “beautiful boy” (New York isn’t dead!).
As you can imagine, my pre-op tit appointments did not go well. At the first appointment, my surgeon (Marc) was describing the procedure, and I fainted in one of his big fancy chairs. I woke up to Marc’s wife (who is also the receptionist) screaming at Marc to “get the candied nuts” out of his desk drawer. He handed them to me, I ate them, and then I CitiBiked back to my apartment, absolutely humiliated.
At the second doctor’s appointment (mandated pre-op physical), the physician didn’t know what top surgery was. I stared at the linoleum and tried to explain it. Then they took my blood, I fainted again, and this time I took the subway back.
Against all odds, the day of the surgery finally arrived. For some reason I assumed that I’d return home spewing fluid, so I laid 900 towels down on my bed. My now-girlfriend (yes now-girlfriend… let’s just sayyyy I got surgery and was on oxy and she made me homemade cinnamon rolls and I cried because I was so touched — not a euphemism) looked at the bed and was like “it looks like you’re about to do a home birth.” I laughlaughlaugh like that’s the funniest thing ever! and like I’m totally not nervous about the major surgery I am going to have!
My best friend from home walked me into the surgery center, because I didn’t need my now-girlfriend seeing me sweat and cry and faint and maybe have to eat more candied nuts. When we entered the waiting room, there was a girl wearing a Champion sweatshirt and I was like... girl we are at Manhattan Ear Eye and Throat Hospital during a pandemic… none of us are the champions (Yes, I got my tits done at Manhattan Ear Eye and Throat Hospital a.k.a MEETH. I have since contacted them to let them know that they should add “Tit” or “Boob” to their name to be more inclusive. I think “MEBETH” has a nice ring to it).
The MEBETH people put me in a room and told me to pee in a cup and then get naked. I tried to put the big plastic shirt thing on but struggled big-time. A nurse came in and snorted. He asked if I “need help with my gown.” I was like “uh yeah, in case you can’t tell by my haircut, I’m not exactly an expert when it comes to gowns”. He did not laugh at my incredible joke, but he did mouse-in-Cinderella-style fix my medical dress and then leave.
Next came Norma. Upon entering, Norma said (in the thickest Brooklyn accent you’ve ever heard): “I’m Norma, you’re in excellent hands with me.” She then informed me that my pregnancy test (guess that’s what the pee was for) had come back “IFFY”. She said “iffy” while doing that “so so” gesture with her hand. You know the one.
I stared excellent-hands-Norma dead in the face and was like Norma, do I look like someone who would be pregnant? Do I have a glow to me? And she stared back like Bitch, the only glow you have is one that says “I’m in love with every woman on the TV show Glow” and that is why I am running the pregnancy test again.
Excellent-hands-Norma left, and before I could take out my phone to tell my now-girlfriend that I might be pregnant so it’s actually really great that we set up that home-birthing station, I see a bright yellow Croc jut its way through the door. The Croc has two dozen smiley faces on it. My anesthesiologist has arrived.
Here’s the thing. I don’t have good luck with anesthesiologists. As I mentioned in a previous newsletter, I once had an anesthesiologist who, right before putting me to sleep, informed me that he only does anesthesiology part-time and during the other time he writes books about Bob Dylan. So I’m there staring at smiley Crocs like oh great this guy definitely part-time writes songs for Jojo Siwa.
Smiley Crocs looks at my chart and says “you’re a fainter?”… affirmative. Correct. Nice of Marc to include that in my file. Then Smiley says “You know, my nephew once fainted at a Benihana. They were making shrimp three tables over and he’s allergic to shrimp and he fainted from the smell.” I was like “is he ok?” And Smiley Crocs was like “Yeah, he’s at Georgetown now.” And I say “Oh good. No shrimp there.” As if Georgetown isn’t right next to the Potomac which leads to the Atlantic Ocean where there are, in fact, millions of shrimp.
After this rousing discussion, Smiley directed me to the operating room. When the door opened, I saw ol’ Marky Marc and a bunch of Med Students standing around. Marky Marc looked me up and down and said “wow, you’re upright.” Everyone in the room howled with laughter. Guess they’d also seen my chart. Then Marc said “Don’t be nervous, Marc! Oh wait! That’s my name! Gah!” and the room erupted again. I invited Marc to an open mic once Corona is over, then climbed on the operating table.
Smiley gave me a nice little morphine cocktail. As I drifted off to sleep, I could hear Marky Marc explaining what “nonbinary” is to the Med Students. Even half-asleep I was like… you got into med school... you know every bone in the body... but you dont know what “nonbinary” is? It’s like how boys are like “they/them pronouns are too confusing” and then proceed to explain every rule of lacrosse. They’re like ok you got your defender midfielder attacker and goal keeper. On our team that’s JR, RJ, PJ, and JP but he likes to be called “Big Man” so we call him that- gotta respect it- it’s who he is!
AnYwaY. The point of this whole story is that I woke up from the surgery without tits. But before I realized where I was, I said one of the saddest sentences anyone can ever utter… which is: “I am late for my morning Zoom meeting.” YEAH. If that isn’t CORPORATE AMERICA for you. No support for mothers breastfeeding and popping RIGHT back into your brain while the ghosts of your breasts are BLEEDING. Shake my damn head.
For the record, the work zoom meeting I thought I was late for was the daily morning check-in I have at the vegan start-up where I work (and write incredible copy like “r u Ny or la based? - actually we’re plant based”).
I also really do think my tits are ghosts and not fully dead. They have plenttyyyyy of unfinished business. They gotta haunt every Victoria’s Secret saleswoman who somehow convinced me to buy a cheetah print bra for 50 fucking dollars, and they need to haunt this kid who, in 7th grade, told me that I would be hotter if I didnt have such “sad bad boobs”. My ghost tits are gonna go find him at his Deloitte-ass-job in his high-rise apartment and be like: BOO BITCH WHO’S SAD NOW?
Come to think of it… he probably would love that… visited by a pair of phantom breasts in the middle of the night… god dammit. Men suck. Why the hell do I want to look like one so badly?
ANYWAY MARKY MARC AND SMILEY CROCS AND THE DUMB MEDICAL STUDENTS were like “no Megan, you’re not late for your zoom meeting, you’re bleeding out on a metal table.”
I sat up, absolutely humiliated that I forgot where I was, after I spent the last two years on a waiting list, upward of 40 hours on the phone with Blue Cross Blue Shield, and had 19 full panic attacks about whether the surgery was even going to happen because of Trump laws and, you know, the virus plaguing the entire world.
But it did happen. And now I look even more like The Angel Gabriel.
Also I’m not pregnant. In case you were worried. Excellent-hands-Norma ran the test again and it was negative.
Did you enjoy this? Did you hate this? This week was less lyrical and more unhinged! The tenses were all messed up! You into that? You ever been to Dave and Busters? Actually don’t tell me, I do not care.
-Meg
Social- @megspope@mpopetweets
Venmo- @mpope-venmo-26
Website- meganpopework.com
Donate to The Audre Lorde Project
Movie Of The Week: This week I watched Happiest Season twice and But I’m A Cheerleader once.
Promo Of The Week: Check out Nate Bargatze’s hour-long Netflix special. It’s good wholesome fun.
Thoughts Of The Week:
