Back to "The Big C": Can you really call it wish fulfillment when it involves terminal illness? Imagine "Eat Pray Love," but with cancer instead of Javier Bardem. I know I talked about this last week, but I'm starting to wonder if there's a limit to how much "You're pretty cool, Mrs. J" you can buy with a Stage IV diagnosis. It's mostly hypothetical, though, because even without the tacit White Mom/Tawonda! approval signifiers, Mrs. J is still very f***ing cool. She deserves all the backslapping she's gonna get. (And speaking of, whence that livid scar down her back? Guess Cathy's done hospital time before now, which makes her compartmentalization about all this even easier to understand.)
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