I WANNA HEAR YOU SAY IT
21 February 2002
It's awfully weird, working at a cancer charity. Cancer. Cannn-cerrrr.
Can, sir? Can-can, sir? Yeah, look at me, I can say it. I can SAY IT.
I can write it. Cancer! Cancer! CannnnnSAH! Breast cancer. BREAST CANCER.
Primary cancer. Secondary cancer. Metastasis! Calcification! Apoptosis!
D'you know, if you get it in your breast, and then it spreads to your
liver, you don't have liver cancer? You have breast cancer in your LIVER!
Little bastards! Running ramshackle riot through your blood and setting
up home wherever they fucking fancy! D'you know, if you have to have a
mastectomy and you want to keep your nipple, they can SEW your nipple
onto your THIGH? D'you know, they can make you a new breast out of part
of your BACK? S'amazing. Anyway, darn freakin' Christ, shouldn't there
be some kind of law against FIT SCIENTISTS? Yesterday, I'm at the fucking
breast cancer research centre, dictaphone in hand, interviewing the Microray
Lab Manager who's researching into BRCA2 the inherited breast cancer gene,
and I'm staring at the floor cuz to look at him is too much, and hey,
what matter is it when he's SCOTTISH an everything, and I can sit and
listen? He wasn't wearing a lab coat and black-framed glasses, sadly,
and he wasn't holding a steaming test tube. But he did talk about over-expressed
genes and well plates and micropipetting, and lemme tell you, my jeans
were getting pretty over-expressed at the thought of his micro-pipette.
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