I hate clock-time. I love life-time. 

Welcome to my sacred salon, demise den, parting parlor… basically my room to die in at home

“Dear Erica,” you write. “You seem to be doing so much, and really really really living life to the fullest. How do you feel most of the time? What is the sick/okay/good ratio? How much of your time is spent tending to the cancer versus being able to carry on with life?”

“You could increase your weights, you know,” Gayle the trainer points out. I flash back to six months ago, when I returned to the gym, suitably recovered from radiation and steroids. I felt fine, but I was shocked that I couldn’t budge the leg-lift machine.

Inspiration by mastication