📍Buenos Aires, Argentina, 7.28.25

Evita died from cervical cancer. It’s been a real treasure to read the gritty details about the oceans of blood and constant agony that was her illness for the years leading up to her death. The author described her as pale and beautiful by the end of it—so clearly written by a man—and even detailed the creep who was in charge of preserving her body and how he used to fondle her corpse. Eva Peron had always been terrified about what they might do with her body after whatever animated it was gone, because death clearly doesn’t stop men. Well, I fear I have a real hatred for physicality. I don’t know what it is, but every time I see my name written out in physical form, my entire being curdles inside like sour evaporating milk. I want to snap my fingers and disappear, along with any and every memory of my physical existence. I don’t know why. I like that name and I like that person, but I don’t like that it’s me.

It’s great to know that I have a lot to look forward to if I do have cancer. I’d undoubtedly be better off than Evita, because I could pump myself with morphine and other fun chemicals and ride the ecstatic wave to oblivion. Meanwhile, she would wire her body to the seat of the car so that she wouldn’t fall over as they paraded through crowded streets. Yeah, I’d be better off.

Chances are I’m cancer-free. That doesn’t dismantle the possibility, though. But I don’t feel very worried. If anything, I feel kind of vindicated. I always said I’d probably die young, which has always been met with doesn’t say that-s and no you won’t-s. Well, you know what, maybe I will! Maybe I have cancer and it’s all through my body and it’s too damn late! Ha fuck you I was right!

Agh. Getting sick and dying by Christmas doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world. It would be a nice place to die I think, in my mother’s home by the Christmas tree as the fireplace burns. If my other option is living until 90 and spending the last decades of my life alone and decrepit, I mean really, who loses here, because that sounds like a win. But anyway, fine, no, I don’t actually want to die. I kind of like being Megan, and this is my only chance at it. I also really like hot coffee and soft blankets and annoying cats and the dizziness from drunk cigarettes. So if I had a choice, I would stick around a little while longer.