I love coffee! And I find it very hard to start my day without it. It helps clear away all the clouds and warmly lubricates one’s mind for all the things one has to do, like put on socks and answer e-mail with more than just a “F--k you!” So if I cannot manage to do these minor tasks without a cup of joe, can you imagine what it’s like trying to write this column without it? No, I am not on some crazy cleanse, nor did I suddenly become Mormon after performing in Salt Lake City for Pride. The truth is, I cannot have coffee this morning because I am going in for an MRI in a few hours. And I am going in for an MRI in a few hours because I may have a brain tumor. I will let you read that again. After all, how often does one get to type that particular sentence? But this is not just any brain tumor, mind you—oh no! Of course, I may have a brain tumor that—are you sitting?—causes breast tissue to grow! If this was a live show and not merely a column in a magazine, this is the exact moment when the drummer would give us a classic rim shot: badump-bump!

OK, now let me explain because, like most episodes of the new Showtime series Nurse Jackie, it’s not quite as good as you think it’s going to be. I mean, it’s good, just not earth-shattering, you know? See, I went to a doctor to have some bloodwork done. A friend of mine recommended this doctor after he put my friend on testosterone therapy and he started feeling great and dropping weight relatively effortlessly. Since I had been back on my 12-step program for overeating and the weight was coming off at an excruciatingly slow pace, I thought, “Hey, I bet I have low testosterone, too!” Well, it turns out I have very low testosterone (I hope you enjoyed all those high notes, you selfish a--holes!) and very high levels of prolactin. What is prolactin you ask? Well, it’s just the hormone that makes boobs grow and helps in the production of breast milk. And before any tranny-chasing perverts out there start drooling and search for me on Facebook... NO, I AM NOT LACTATING. Anyhoo, where was I? Oh yes, I was talking about the possible reason I have moobs (actually I prefer Gentlemen Jugs or Dude Double D’s, thank-you-very-much!). So the doctor assures me that the elevated prolactin (is it just me or doesn’t that sound like baby formula made by the fine folks at Gatorade specifically for toddler athletes?) is probably due to some medications I am on. I explain that, other than the occasional Aleve for tranma’s rusty old knee, I am not on any meds. “None?” the doctor asks. “None!” I proudly reply. It turns out that the particular medications that may cause this particular hormone to be produced are, in fact, anti-psychotics. Now, there are many out there who would argue that I should indeed be on anti-psychotics, but I am not. If I were, my act would be as boring as most other drag queens out there. Imagine it: No moodswings, no violent outbursts, no maniacal laughter. Sing it with me in your best Jo Anne Worley: “Boring!”

So then the doctor—over the phone, while waiting for the horsey flight attendant on my trip to Winnipeg to bark at me that it’s time to turn off all electronic devices—blurts out that since I am not on any anti-psychotic meds that I probably just have a brain tumor and that I should really schedule an MRI as soon as possible. Huh? “Sir, please turn your phone off!” cheerfully demands Flicka through clenched teeth. OK, if I didn’t need anti-psychotic medication before, I certainly need it now.

So, this morning is my MRI and yes, I am nervous. People, I am a big baby and all I can think of is that scene in The Exorcist when they stick the thing in her neck and it shoots out blood and then they take pictures of her brain while the machine clangs really, really, really loudly! And then, to add insult to injury, they don’t even get one single photo of the demon possessing her soul. Look, the good news is that if there is a tumor on or near my pituitary gland at the base of my brain that is causing my tits to grow, chances are it is benign and will respond to medication. And if there ain’t no tumor, I am just a full-blown freak of nature and medical mystery with the most impressive cleavage in the mens locker room. But you know that no matter what happens, this self-centered bitch will milk it for all it’s worth, honey!

Yes, I said “milk it!”

illustration by glenhanson.com