Turns out he's the guy who ruined snowmen for children everywhere

Boyfriend came home from washing my truck for me (awesome) and handed me one of my Wachovia bank deposit envelopes I stash in the door of the truck. "I got Young Jeezy's autograph for you."

"Who?"

"You don't know who Young Jeezy is?" he asked, honestly shocked.

"No," I shrugged.

"He's a rapper. He's as big as TI," he explained slowly as if I was a two-year-old who speaks English as a second language.

"The only reason I know who TI is is because he got arrested at my Walgreens for trying to buy a machine gun!" Like, duh.

I picked up the folded envelope and studied the signature. I suppose it reads Young Jeezy, but not a single character looks like one from the English language. In an effort to make it legible, I squinted. "So where did you see Young Jeezy?"

"At the Cactus Car Wash. He was just hanging out there."

"So this famous rapper justs hangs out at the car wash?" I picked up the envelope again, trying to decide if the signature was in pencil or ink, and how much it would be worth on eBay. "How did you know it was him? Do you know what he looks like?"

"A black girl was freaking out when she saw him and said she didn't have the nerve to ask him for a picture and autograph, so I went with her."

"Ah," I laughed. "So you had to get confirmation from another race!"

***

At lunch today I decided to test the worth of my autograph. "So Boyfriend got me Young Jeezy's signature."

Dan paused, "Who?"

I think that answers my question.

Commercial Break

It's official: the economy is in a recession. I heard it's the worst recession since the Great Depression and I'd be lying if I wasn't half-convinced that I'm going to be homeless and begging for food on the streets within the year. Money's tight and my social calendar has become boring because I'm making sure to pay my credit card bill in full every month--if I'm not in debt then I have nothing to lose. Well, that's the assumption I'm operating under.

The dollar isn't worth anything anymore, and commercials tell you it's time to melt down Uncle Ben's retirement watch he left you before he kicked it. Like ain'tshakespeare told my portly gentleman friend of the North: "Melt down your golden sofa, your golden dailyware and place settings, your golden air conditioning unit, your golden hamburgers and all that golden gold you have, and you're set."

Only, uh, I don't have an Uncle Ben. Or hamburgers. Hamburgers are for the rich, folks. I'm back to Ramen Noodles. So eff that, it's time to buy my own bullion and shove it under my mattress!

Emo is short for Emotional

I've never felt like I've belonged. I was the first kid on my block whose parents divorced. I've spent my entire life being shuttled back and forth between two families, splitting time so that my memories are incomplete pieces.

Then in elementary school I was terrorized and bullied by one Michael Honeycutt because... I read books. Books without pictures. I've never quite gotten over Michael Honeycutt getting all the popular kids to hate me and I suffer from a debilitating self-esteem because of it. It would shock most people to know what I think of myself.

So when I got to high school, I didn't want to give Michael Honeycutt another chance. I wanted everyone to like me and I skipped from each social circle, making an appearance and giving a smile so they would approve of me. Only I skipped to too many circles: newspaper, thespian society, orchestra, and a Bible study. I spread myself too thinly and I never created a solid circle of friends. Even though I was there, I never belonged.

College was the same, but different. Keep the low self-esteem, drop the extracurriculars, add alcohol and exboyfriends, and shake. Imbibe in shot form, straight up, no chaser.

I got the results back from my biopsy. Inconclusive, if you can call that a result. We need to get another biopsy, they tell me. We can't tell if it's cancer or not.

Of course they can't tell me it's benign; I've never been a part of the majority.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

Last week was a really bad week for me. A really, really bad week. It started with a fight I never care to relive, then my truck got broken into—again—breaking the back lock on the liftgate and making off with a wallet. And it ended with a cancer biopsy.

By Friday, I was done. I managed to get into one more fight, this time with my boss, and I headed home for the weekend with specifically nothing planned, save one trip to the junkyard to try to find a replacement latch for my truck.

I yawned and stretched during the 8 o'clock hour that night and headed to bed. I was tired and wanted to sleep and forget about everything that's been plaguing me. And apparently I slept through an effing tornado, although I didn't know it at the time.

It wasn't until Saturday afternoon when I found out (after I had visited the junkyard. The only matching truck they had had been on fire and everything from the back bumper to the steering wheel had melted together. Sure the back latch was still on it, if you were up for scraping the rust off, and the gasoline smell, and the bad juju that comes with a vehicle of death.) I bored of the TiVo and turned on live TV for the first time ever. I settled for an episode of Cops on Fox (hey, those shows never fail to make my situation look a little brighter.) Instead I got Ken Cook and his doppler radar. "If you're in this pink zone right here," he gestured. "You need to take cover now."

"That's us," Boyfriend spoke up. "We live right above the A in Atlanta," he said, pointing to the map on the screen. As if God had heard, the sky turned green and sheets of hail began to fall.

"It looks like it's raining cereal!" I exclaimed, never having been by a window during a hail storm before. Behind me I heard the TV say marble-sized hail and instantly decided that was a better description than my Trix imagery. "Wait," I said, thinking again. "Doesn't hail come right before a tornado?"

"There's no way a tornado could land in the city," Boyfriend responded. "With all the tall buildings, there's no space for it to go vertical." I felt safer after he said that. I always felt that storms in the city were more violent than the ones I remember in the suburbs where I grew up. Whereas in the suburbs lightning would flash in the distance and you could always count between thunderclaps to see how far away it was, the lightning in the city had always felt right above me, and the thunderclaps were always immediate. After 10 minutes of deafening hail crashing against the apartment, the storm passed. Tornado averted. "See," Boyfriend teased. "Told you. It'll never happen in the city."

That was the exact moment when Ken Cook talked about the first ever tornado that touched down the previous night in downtown Atlanta. Ever. "A path of destruction 200 yards wide from the CNN Center to Cabbagetown," he detailed. I looked wide-eyed at Boyfriend. The CNN Center is no more than two miles from me, and Cabbagetown lies about three streets over. The TV showed devastating damage: windows were blown out of the Westin, cab drivers reported the 139 mph winds blowing the glass out of their cars. Hell, we were in a state of emergency and I had no idea. I slept through it all.

This is becoming a little concerning. And P.S. still haven't taken care of that renter's insurance thing.

Waiting

The nurse walked into the waiting room.

"Jamie Ck...ck...ck," she stuttered.

Boyfriend corrected her and I gave her the warm, forgiving smile that I reserve for strangers who attempt my last name. That's okay. I forgive you. You tried.

And because Boyfriend took charge—the way he always does—the nurse assumed he was Jamie."Thanks for waiting for so long, if you just follow me back here-" the nurse continued. Boyfriend stood up and gathered my purse, book, and jacket for me so I wouldn't have to carry them.

"No, I'm Jamie," I said, speaking for the first time. I guess I was more nervous than I originally thought. A lot more nervous.

The nurse's face flushed with embarrassment. Jamie being a gender-neutral name, Boyfriend taking charge, I could easily see how she mixed us up. Only I was the one with the hospital band tied around my wrist.

Boyfriend continued to pick my things up. "Well, can I come with her?" he asked.

The nurse looked sideways at me, "Do you need him to?"

"No!" I chirped. I flashed him a quick, broad smile so he'd believe me. I didn't want Boyfriend with me; I needed to do this alone. I didn't want the nurse to think I was weak. I didn't want Boyfriend to see what they were going to do to me. I had to be strong.

I blocked Boyfriend from the exit door, "I'll be right back!" I waived and disappeared with the nurse. I wish that I hugged him and kissed him before I went away, but I had to be strong.

I followed her through the halls of radiology. "So were you in a different department?" she asked, making conversation.

"Yes, they originally sent us to nuclear." I tripped over my own words. All of a sudden I'd forgotten how to say nuclear and I didn't want to pronounce it the way Bush does, so I ended up slurring the end of my sentence. A lot more nervous, I thought again.

One opened-butt gown later and the nurse spread the jelly on my neck and the ultrasound began. I reminded her that the pain was on my left side, and she told me she needed to see what the right side looks like as well.

"So, um, lumps in your neck, are they normal—I mean common?" I asked.

The nurse widened her eyes and shook her head no. Okay then. Not common. So imagine my surprise when the ultrasound screen showed five of them on the right side of my neck, and that wasn't even the side that hurt. She saved each screen and measured each lump. I quit asking questions, deciding that maybe ignorance was really bliss in this circumstance.

The nurse adjusted her pressure when she moved to the left side of my throat. Bob quickly appeared and took up the entire ultrasound screen. I'm familiar with Bob. He's the giant lump that made my breathing shallow, eating difficult, and yawning painful. He's the lump that I've had since January and is visible to the naked eye. Stupid Bob the tumor.

Once again, the nurse froze the screen and captured Bob. She said he's about the size of a ping pong ball and, according to the screen, he's got some brothers and sisters behind him on the left side as well.

The doctor arrived and everyone suited up: hair nets, surgical masks, et al. "The good news is that the lump-"

"Bob."

"What?"

"She named her lump," explained the nurse. "Bob."

She laughed. "Okay! Well then. The good news is that Bob is so big we won't have to do a lot of digging with the needles. We can go in and get our samples and get out."

There was a pinch and then fire filled my neck as she injected the local anesthetic. The biopsy began. To my left was the doctor with the scary, tissue-collecting needles and to my right was the ultrasound machine that showed the needle plunging into my neck, towards Bob. I chose to close my eyes for the procedure.

I could feel the needle and the poking and prodding, it just didn't hurt. I was okay with that. Her promises were going swimmingly until she took the needle and shook it furiously while it was still in my neck. "Just need a good sample!" she chirped as I involuntarily groaned, realizing that I had been holding my breath the entire time.

"You're doing really well," the nurse offered. "Do you want to hold my hand?"

Lying on the bed, I couldn't even remember where my hands were. I flexed my right hand and discovered it was in my left hand. I was holding my own hand. My only goal for the biopsy was to not cry, so I accepted the nurse's hand. One hand on the ultrasound and the other comforting me; I was grateful for her.

The doctor plunged the needle in my throat and swished it around two more times and then the procedure was over. A Band-Aid, a pack of ice, and the nurse showed me the way back to my boyfriend. "He was really worried about you, you know," she said. "He was very anxious, so you better get back to him."

Despite the absence of drugs, I was dizzy and reeling over the whole ordeal. I couldn't walk, only shuffle unsteadily back to the ultrasound waiting room. Boyfriend took my arm and guided me as I teetered down the hallway, towards the car to go home.

"What'd they say?"

"They said I get a free blow job pass."

"No, when will you know?"

"A week."

And so we wait.