Tomorrow is my second chemo treatment.

I feel like a convict being sentenced to jail; a common criminal being forced to pay for his crimes. The cold permeating my bones; the unbreakable exhaustion; the heinous sores on my lips, in my mouth and down my throat; the rash covering my torso and the itch that can’t be scratched: these are the joys to come. Throw in some delightful nausea and you know it’s going to be such fun.

And I have this morbid fear that I have been lied to. There was excess hair in the bottom of the tub when I showered and when I combed my moustache, too many hairs fell to the counter top. Cursed is the poison that takes my pride.

Fuck, I don’t want to lose my hair again. I don’t look good bald!