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Friday, May 30, 2014

La leche

I can't steam the milk properly. For weeks now, my little coffees have turned out insipid and thin. I wasn't great at it before, but once in a while I could reach that burnt sugar velvet. Now the milk is merely hot, verging on burned. Not transformed. Just coffee and milk instead of a bittersweet cloud.

Saw the plastic surgeon, had a laugh over the new photograph in the exam room: a commissioned work, aim which the artist blew up, exploded, a bag of breast implants.

The implants remain surprisingly intact. Tough little fuckers.

He's still not convinced about my skin. I wish I were made of silicon implant skin, though then you'd see all my insides I guess. But I wish I were that tough.

But the radiated skin is tissuey and thin. Like the skin on my grandmothers arms in her ninth decade. Easily torn. I read that chemo ages your cells an extra 15 years, which I guess explains the new silver hairs on my head and creases in my face.

But not why I can't steam the milk properly.

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