The last few days have been a little bitter sweet. I'm back from my near death experience, which is good. I promised myself if I rested until Sunday night, I could go to my ultimate game on Monday, and rest I did. So, Monday night came and I was incredibly excited to play. I was there early to warm up, since it felt like forever since I'd played. But, apparently one of the remaining effects of my cold was either blindness or poor reaction time, I'm not really sure which, all I know is that I caught a disc right in the eye. It was a beautiful throw, if only I'd seen it on time to catch it, or at least to bob a bit.
Later it turned out that maybe the universe really wanted to connect my head with hard plastic flying objects, because another frisbee ricocheted off the top of my head, right into the hands of my team mate in the N-zone. That was actually pretty sweet. I knew at some point my erratic running in circles would pay off somehow. I got many high fives.
Anyways, I woke up today hoping that I wouldn't have a black eye. I was actually quite worried that the frisbee in the eye was the universes way of teaching me not to be too cocky, since I had commented that morning on the fact that most days it really doesn't make a difference whether I wear makeup or not, cause I'm just that gorgeous. Not only would a black eye force me to wear makeup, it would ensure that the entire process of applying it would be as painful as possible. Touche universe (I know I should accent that touche, but I've never really figured out how to do that...I should probably ask friends with accents in their names, since they probably have figured it out by now). But, to my surprise, I woke up with my eye still tender to the touch, but with no visible signs of bruising.
I suspect that despite being a ginger, I'm somehow immune to bruising. Maybe I just don't have enough blood. Or maybe it is also ginger and thus blends in with my skin. I'm not really sure about the physiology of this condition.
Regardless, I was pretty excited, and thought maybe things were going my way. No bruising, and I was going to finally start biking to work again after a week of walking/subwaying. My excitement must have distracted me from noticing the sky opening up to drench the city, because I ended up completely soaked less than a minute into the trip. Somehow I made it to work on time, changed and dry, with the squelching of my shoes the only sign of exactly how miserable I felt. Then, I learned that I would need to stay late and somehow figure out how to close the store. I clarified a few times that the main thing I needed to do for this whole closing thing was to ensure we weren't robbed blind or set on fire. I like to set small, acheivable goals, which is good, because at some point in my 10 hour shift, I became quite hypoglycemic and my brain shut off. Still, somehow eventually I managed to get the gate to lock and escape into the night.
But Melvina (my bike) was still waiting for me, and my hypoglycemic brain couldn't work my theft proof bike lock. And, in trying to open it without fully inserting the key, I managed to bend the key until it was unusable once I finally realized what I was doing wrong. I called my roommate Byla, desperate, and she offered to bring my spare-key on the subway, which probably saved my life, because the hypoglycemia was really starting to mess with my brain. While waiting for her, I realized that I had a bag of celery in my bag, which probably wouldn't help the blood sugar, but would amuse me for a spell. So, I sat on the wet ground beside my bike, eating celery and singing showtunes to stop me from crying while I waited for the most wonderful roommate in the world to rescue my bike. No one even looked at me twice. People are weird. I would have looked twice and then probably comment on how weird people are that aren't me.
Eventually my spell in purgatory ended, and I made it home. Actually, I made it before Byla, because there were subway delays. I love Byla, because she didn't kick my ass, even though she would have been in the right. This fact made me realize that although it seems like I'm going through a bad time, maybe it's not so bad, because it's when you have a really really shitty day and you're totally hypoglycemic and can barely see straight that you realize what kind of friends you have in your life. I realized I have good ones. Some people realize other things on days like that, and that is a real bad day. Mine was just a chance to practice being stoic. Next time I'll try to do it without singing Close Every Door from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. But I can't promise anything.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
People suck. Except for you. I like you. Probably.
Today, I went to work, even though I'm still pretty sure I'm facing imminent death, but that's no reason not to continue to build up my estate. I'm not sure if people were more rude and stupid, or whether I was just more sensitive to the general rudeness and stupidity that exists around me every day because I'm sick right now. A woman came in to the store and asked what samples we have. I was confused and didn't really know off the top of my head, since our testers aren't always consistent and I wasn't really trained to memorize what is free in the store. She couldn't really wait for me to look though. "I'm not going to buy anything, I just need something to get this fish smell off my hands," she said impatiently. As I spent another 10 seconds looking, she said, as if I were an incompetent idiot, "Surely you must have something."
I think it was just irritating because of the absolute lack of appreciation for the system we're working in. Yes, she clearly had money, and I'm assuming that allows her to be pretty nasty to people in everyday life. But, when you're going into a store and blatantly announcing that you won't be buying anything, there is no reason for me to give a crap how much money you have. I'm paid to be nice to people, with money from products sold to said people. I'm not paid by people stealing free samples. If you're going to come into a store and announce that you have no intention of purchasing anything, at least understand that I have no obligation to treat you any better than you're treating me. People aren't being nice to you because you are awesome or you deserve it, they are being nice because they want your money, so if they already know they're not going to get it, they might just start acting exactly like you. If you're going to be a total bitch, at least do it with logic and don't announce that you're not buying anything as if it entitles you to better service from me. That is all I ask.
Other people were irritating, but just in your standard, run of the mill, I-hate-my-life-so-I'm-going-to-do-my-best-to-try-to-make-you-hate-yours-as-well-but-really-it's-just-going-to-make-you-hate-me-further-increasing-the-total-hate-in-the-world-directed-at-me kind of way. So I won't write anymore about those.
Sometimes, I walk to the grocery store nearby because it's the closest washroom to the store. Today, they had various jazz ensembles playing to celebrate something or other. Instead of making me happy, or giving me a desire to buy many groceries, it just made me sad. These people spend their life trying to make it as a musician, and then they end up playing in a grocery store. I guess it could be better than busking, but I feel like busking has a certain nobility to it that playing for people buying their broccoli doesn't. I imagine that playing jazz standards in a grocery store probably gives the mind a lot of time to wander and consider where exactly ones musical career is going. I know it very well could end up being one of the first scenes in the made for TV movie about the making of their incredibly successful band in 20 years, but somehow I doubt it. Partially because TV probably won't exist anymore, replaced with some sort of brain chip receiving from a satellite that just gives you new entertaining memories, or something equally terrifying. Either way, every bathroom break made me a little sadder than the one before, which is not the point of a bathroom break.
But, in the end, the whole day was made better by free cake, reminding me that there is nothing that cannot be solved by free dessert. Except perhaps for respiratory infections, which will most likely be made much worse by the simple sugars feeding the little bastards currently making me miserable. However, I can probably take solace in the fact that every random antisocial idiot that I encountered today also encountered my germs. Life really isn't all that bad I guess.
I think it was just irritating because of the absolute lack of appreciation for the system we're working in. Yes, she clearly had money, and I'm assuming that allows her to be pretty nasty to people in everyday life. But, when you're going into a store and blatantly announcing that you won't be buying anything, there is no reason for me to give a crap how much money you have. I'm paid to be nice to people, with money from products sold to said people. I'm not paid by people stealing free samples. If you're going to come into a store and announce that you have no intention of purchasing anything, at least understand that I have no obligation to treat you any better than you're treating me. People aren't being nice to you because you are awesome or you deserve it, they are being nice because they want your money, so if they already know they're not going to get it, they might just start acting exactly like you. If you're going to be a total bitch, at least do it with logic and don't announce that you're not buying anything as if it entitles you to better service from me. That is all I ask.
Other people were irritating, but just in your standard, run of the mill, I-hate-my-life-so-I'm-going-to-do-my-best-to-try-to-make-you-hate-yours-as-well-but-really-it's-just-going-to-make-you-hate-me-further-increasing-the-total-hate-in-the-world-directed-at-me kind of way. So I won't write anymore about those.
Sometimes, I walk to the grocery store nearby because it's the closest washroom to the store. Today, they had various jazz ensembles playing to celebrate something or other. Instead of making me happy, or giving me a desire to buy many groceries, it just made me sad. These people spend their life trying to make it as a musician, and then they end up playing in a grocery store. I guess it could be better than busking, but I feel like busking has a certain nobility to it that playing for people buying their broccoli doesn't. I imagine that playing jazz standards in a grocery store probably gives the mind a lot of time to wander and consider where exactly ones musical career is going. I know it very well could end up being one of the first scenes in the made for TV movie about the making of their incredibly successful band in 20 years, but somehow I doubt it. Partially because TV probably won't exist anymore, replaced with some sort of brain chip receiving from a satellite that just gives you new entertaining memories, or something equally terrifying. Either way, every bathroom break made me a little sadder than the one before, which is not the point of a bathroom break.
But, in the end, the whole day was made better by free cake, reminding me that there is nothing that cannot be solved by free dessert. Except perhaps for respiratory infections, which will most likely be made much worse by the simple sugars feeding the little bastards currently making me miserable. However, I can probably take solace in the fact that every random antisocial idiot that I encountered today also encountered my germs. Life really isn't all that bad I guess.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Two in one day? I'm like a machine. A bored, cold-ridden machine.
I'm still sick, which isn't surprising, since it's been less than a day since I wrote the first post talking about my life-threatening cold. The prognosis is my own, if you're wondering, and based on no established medical knowledge, but I have a sense for these things. It's not the first time I've had a self-diagnosed potentially fatal illness, so I know a lot about it. Luckily I managed to survive all those other times, allowing me to have a wealth of personal experience on the subject.
Anyways, I did some other things to amuse myself today. I played Zelda for awhile. That was good times, kind of, you know, whatever. Then I sat staring at the wall, before I decided that I had gathered enough energy to venture out into the world to obtain a library card. I haven't had a non-school-issued library card for a good 10 years, at least, after I lost mine so many times I was too embarrassed to get a new one. I hear that a library card is like a key to the world of imagination. I'm hoping that key works both ways, because I think I might want to get out of that world. Actually, I lie, I'm quite happy here, where I'm allowed to keep Oompa-loompas as pets and most houseplants recite poetry expressing their deep yearning for freedom (it's tragic, but entertaining).
Anyways, after checking out a few random books, coming home and getting bored with them, I decided I should probably just post again, because they have become so few and far between that I would shock everyone reading (ie. my parents) if I managed to post two in one day. So, I thought I'd write about the true reason I started posting less, which is that I have a horrible fear of this blog becoming self-indulgent.
After further reflection I realized this is a ridiculous fear. It's already self-indulgent. In fact, it's always been self-indulgent. I just was so self-indulgent that I self-indulgently convinced myself that it wasn't. But, if it actually wasn't self-indulgent, I probably would not have survived past one post if I'd even written that one at all, which I wouldn't have, because I would have been indulging myself in some other way, most likely involving chocolate, because it is most delicious. What I failed to realize in all my fears of becoming self-indulgent is that people only actually label people self-indulgent when they are actually successful. Really, when someone is creatively successful, there are only two potential directions: self-indulgent or sell-out. In the end, it's just that some people don't like certain creations and need to have a label for it that ensures that all others know they are justified in not liking it.
Luckily for me, I am not commercially successful, so, I can pretty much do whatever the hell I want, since my family is not about to label me either way (although I sometimes wonder if I should watch the swearing...). Most of the time people that are not genetically related to me mention this blog, it's usually followed by, "well, I don't read it all the time", which I already know, because I've written pretty much nothing for months and they're speaking like it exists in the present tense. There might have been a time where this bugged me, mainly when I was dreaming of random lazy writings somehow translating into much money and happiness. I hadn't quite figured out how, but thought it was something like Blog ----> _________ ----> have someone drop off big bags of money at my door ----> use said money to buy happiness. But I'm not sure I care now. I like to be able to repeat jokes in a social context and have everyone laugh because they have no idea that I used pretty much the same line in 3 separate blog posts because I'm not really overly original. With none of my friends reading this, I'm pretty much safe to parrot myself at every chance I get, which is good, because I enjoy both parrots and their propensity for crackers.
In conclusion, I am completely self-indulgent, and pretty much cool with that fact. I'm going to continue to alternate between neglecting this blog and writing far too much information about the inner workings of my mind. Some of the time, instead of writing this blog, I will write angry e-mails to major companies and see if I get free stuff, or if instead I will have to boycott them for life. That's just how I roll.
Happy song: Downtown by Petula Clark. I challenge you to listen to section with the key change followed by instrumental solo without feeling happy. However, if I lose the challenge, I don't really care, because I'll just listen to it again and perk right up. It's win-win for me.
Anyways, I did some other things to amuse myself today. I played Zelda for awhile. That was good times, kind of, you know, whatever. Then I sat staring at the wall, before I decided that I had gathered enough energy to venture out into the world to obtain a library card. I haven't had a non-school-issued library card for a good 10 years, at least, after I lost mine so many times I was too embarrassed to get a new one. I hear that a library card is like a key to the world of imagination. I'm hoping that key works both ways, because I think I might want to get out of that world. Actually, I lie, I'm quite happy here, where I'm allowed to keep Oompa-loompas as pets and most houseplants recite poetry expressing their deep yearning for freedom (it's tragic, but entertaining).
Anyways, after checking out a few random books, coming home and getting bored with them, I decided I should probably just post again, because they have become so few and far between that I would shock everyone reading (ie. my parents) if I managed to post two in one day. So, I thought I'd write about the true reason I started posting less, which is that I have a horrible fear of this blog becoming self-indulgent.
After further reflection I realized this is a ridiculous fear. It's already self-indulgent. In fact, it's always been self-indulgent. I just was so self-indulgent that I self-indulgently convinced myself that it wasn't. But, if it actually wasn't self-indulgent, I probably would not have survived past one post if I'd even written that one at all, which I wouldn't have, because I would have been indulging myself in some other way, most likely involving chocolate, because it is most delicious. What I failed to realize in all my fears of becoming self-indulgent is that people only actually label people self-indulgent when they are actually successful. Really, when someone is creatively successful, there are only two potential directions: self-indulgent or sell-out. In the end, it's just that some people don't like certain creations and need to have a label for it that ensures that all others know they are justified in not liking it.
Luckily for me, I am not commercially successful, so, I can pretty much do whatever the hell I want, since my family is not about to label me either way (although I sometimes wonder if I should watch the swearing...). Most of the time people that are not genetically related to me mention this blog, it's usually followed by, "well, I don't read it all the time", which I already know, because I've written pretty much nothing for months and they're speaking like it exists in the present tense. There might have been a time where this bugged me, mainly when I was dreaming of random lazy writings somehow translating into much money and happiness. I hadn't quite figured out how, but thought it was something like Blog ----> _________ ----> have someone drop off big bags of money at my door ----> use said money to buy happiness. But I'm not sure I care now. I like to be able to repeat jokes in a social context and have everyone laugh because they have no idea that I used pretty much the same line in 3 separate blog posts because I'm not really overly original. With none of my friends reading this, I'm pretty much safe to parrot myself at every chance I get, which is good, because I enjoy both parrots and their propensity for crackers.
In conclusion, I am completely self-indulgent, and pretty much cool with that fact. I'm going to continue to alternate between neglecting this blog and writing far too much information about the inner workings of my mind. Some of the time, instead of writing this blog, I will write angry e-mails to major companies and see if I get free stuff, or if instead I will have to boycott them for life. That's just how I roll.
Happy song: Downtown by Petula Clark. I challenge you to listen to section with the key change followed by instrumental solo without feeling happy. However, if I lose the challenge, I don't really care, because I'll just listen to it again and perk right up. It's win-win for me.
I'm average, biatch.
My lungs have decided to strike. I woke up the other day struggling to breath. I'm not quite sure when they even unionized, I clearly didn't get the memo on that one. Luckily, there must be some scabs crossing the picket line, because I don't need to be on a ventilator...yet. Anyways, my general state of hypoxia left me with nothing to do that won't make the situation worse, until I remembered this blog and figured this is probably the time to actually write something, since typing takes minimal effort. I can't guarantee that it will be any good, since thinking takes a little bit more effort.
To begin, I have some advice. When you are sick with a lung infection and the lack of air has caused insomnia, a bad thing to read to help to sleep is a biography of Jim Henson. Yes, most of it is just happy muppet goodness, but if you get to the end it will really help the hypochondria to take over. As wonderful as Kermit is, just wait until you're better. Just trust me on this one.
Anyways, I can kind of see why my lungs might choose to abandon me at this point. I've been feeling a little under the weather for the past few weeks, but despite that I ran a 10k charity run on Sunday morning, then biked to work (whining the whole way about how stupid it was). As stupid as it was, the whole thing made me very proud. You see, throughout my life, I have received much recognition for my extraordinary ability to try when it comes to anything athletic. On any team I've ever been on, I have been appreciated for my constant trying. Of course, being the best at trying is generally a bad thing, because if you were actually succeeding, no one would notice your incredibly impressive trying (and it's pretty damn impressive, if I do say so myself, which I do).
In high school, I was well known on the cross country team for my trying. I'm not sure how I ended up on the cross country team, I think it was mainly because there was no limitation on team numbers so they took anyone. Sometimes when you say you ran cross country in high school, people assume that means you can run. That is a key example of why when you assume it makes an ass out of you and me. You because you're so very wrong, and me because I have to explain that my main contribution to the cross country team was, for the most part, managing to get through races without walking and/or dying.
Once, I got passed by the first place runner in the race that started after mine. He was nice enough to encourage me on in my valiant attempt not to die. Another time, my friend (who could run) finished the race, got her results and ran back to cheer me on as I finished. I was the person on the team that's contribution was making all the other members feel good that, if nothing else, they at least had me coming in behind them. I think it helped that I was very comfortable with this place. Back of the pack is a special place. You can cheer others on as you pass them, because you know they're eventually going to pass you back and that there's really no difference between 87th and 88th place in the grand scheme of things. Often, I would make temporary race friends, because, in the end, these were my people, those poor souls, struggling to survive.
But, this Sunday, everything changed. I got to the end of my 10k to discover that I am no longer a complete loser in the realm of running. I'm now distinctly middle of the pack. That's right. I'm not particularly good or particularly bad. I'm just there, running, like a normal person. My world has been turned upside-down, well, maybe not upside-down, but kind of on its side. I am an average runner.
I may have let this new position in life get to my head too quickly. My brother Shamus and I were having a conversation the other day that somehow ended with a challenge for us to race when he's visiting in a few weeks. In general, challenges with Shamus end with him winning, a fact that I've usually accepted prior to even suggesting we compete. Not that he's better than me at everything, for instance, I am a distinctly better tryer, and I'm more skilled at losing gracefully. But, my big head caused by my recent discovery that I am now average has led me to actually think I could win this one. Of course, my lungs disagree, but I'm sure they'll get in line soon enough. Maybe I'll just threaten to take up smoking, or something, that'll teach them not to mess with me. Maybe I'll call that Plan B, since I'm hoping that the time spent staying still writing this blog might have built enough goodwill for them to consider returning to work, at least long enough for me to kick Shamus' ass. He'll be sorry he ever questioned the power of my newfound averageness.
To begin, I have some advice. When you are sick with a lung infection and the lack of air has caused insomnia, a bad thing to read to help to sleep is a biography of Jim Henson. Yes, most of it is just happy muppet goodness, but if you get to the end it will really help the hypochondria to take over. As wonderful as Kermit is, just wait until you're better. Just trust me on this one.
Anyways, I can kind of see why my lungs might choose to abandon me at this point. I've been feeling a little under the weather for the past few weeks, but despite that I ran a 10k charity run on Sunday morning, then biked to work (whining the whole way about how stupid it was). As stupid as it was, the whole thing made me very proud. You see, throughout my life, I have received much recognition for my extraordinary ability to try when it comes to anything athletic. On any team I've ever been on, I have been appreciated for my constant trying. Of course, being the best at trying is generally a bad thing, because if you were actually succeeding, no one would notice your incredibly impressive trying (and it's pretty damn impressive, if I do say so myself, which I do).
In high school, I was well known on the cross country team for my trying. I'm not sure how I ended up on the cross country team, I think it was mainly because there was no limitation on team numbers so they took anyone. Sometimes when you say you ran cross country in high school, people assume that means you can run. That is a key example of why when you assume it makes an ass out of you and me. You because you're so very wrong, and me because I have to explain that my main contribution to the cross country team was, for the most part, managing to get through races without walking and/or dying.
Once, I got passed by the first place runner in the race that started after mine. He was nice enough to encourage me on in my valiant attempt not to die. Another time, my friend (who could run) finished the race, got her results and ran back to cheer me on as I finished. I was the person on the team that's contribution was making all the other members feel good that, if nothing else, they at least had me coming in behind them. I think it helped that I was very comfortable with this place. Back of the pack is a special place. You can cheer others on as you pass them, because you know they're eventually going to pass you back and that there's really no difference between 87th and 88th place in the grand scheme of things. Often, I would make temporary race friends, because, in the end, these were my people, those poor souls, struggling to survive.
But, this Sunday, everything changed. I got to the end of my 10k to discover that I am no longer a complete loser in the realm of running. I'm now distinctly middle of the pack. That's right. I'm not particularly good or particularly bad. I'm just there, running, like a normal person. My world has been turned upside-down, well, maybe not upside-down, but kind of on its side. I am an average runner.
I may have let this new position in life get to my head too quickly. My brother Shamus and I were having a conversation the other day that somehow ended with a challenge for us to race when he's visiting in a few weeks. In general, challenges with Shamus end with him winning, a fact that I've usually accepted prior to even suggesting we compete. Not that he's better than me at everything, for instance, I am a distinctly better tryer, and I'm more skilled at losing gracefully. But, my big head caused by my recent discovery that I am now average has led me to actually think I could win this one. Of course, my lungs disagree, but I'm sure they'll get in line soon enough. Maybe I'll just threaten to take up smoking, or something, that'll teach them not to mess with me. Maybe I'll call that Plan B, since I'm hoping that the time spent staying still writing this blog might have built enough goodwill for them to consider returning to work, at least long enough for me to kick Shamus' ass. He'll be sorry he ever questioned the power of my newfound averageness.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
I love you Melvina
I bought a bike the other day to aid in my most recent life goal, which is to complete a triathlon at some point prior to untimely death. I thought a good first step would be owning a bike. Actually, that was the second step, the first step was being able to run 5km without keeling over. But I don't call it the first step because I didn't really start thinking about the triathlon until step one was already complete and I was already running double that distance and only vaguely considering the fact that I was likely going to drop dead in the middle of the forest, which would really irritate all the other path users.
It's good to note that the thought of inconveniencing others is a good motivator to keep running and not die. Well, it is for me, it might not be for you, especially if you happen to be a jerk. I'm not sure what you should use to motivate your not dying if you're a jerk. Maybe the thought that if you did drop dead, or, I guess, close to death, you'd give the opportunity for some dogooder to feel good about themselves for saving your life despite you swearing at them the whole time. I'm assuming you would swear at them, but I'm not a jerk, so I don't know, maybe you would bite them instead. Well, at least, I don't think I'm a jerk, but I guess no one really does, which is why sometimes I like to just tell people they're a jerk. Now that I think about it, that's probably one of the things that makes me a jerk. Don't worry, I'll tell myself later, when I'm not busy thinking about how much I love my new bike.
This new love began from the moment I started my test ride. It was like in the movie Avatar. But with a bike instead of a dragonesque creature with a name I can't remember and don't care to google. I've named her Melvina. She was originally named Melvin before I realized she'd really rather be a girl bike. I do not judge. Gender choices aside, I knew I could not live without her and bought her, along with a massive locking system to prevent the severe dehydration that would result from our ever being separated.
Part of the bike buying plan was that I would ride it to work. This plan was further supported by the massive drop in available budget incurred buying Melvina, effectively cutting out my TTC funds. It's okay, because the public transportation situation was starting to bug me. One day, I was on the bus and a rider started batting at my shopping bag. That's right, batting, like a kitty-cat would. Then her stared straight at me. Like a kitty-cat. Nothing else about him said kitty-cat, which made the entire interaction just scream "psychokiller". Perhaps psychokiller is an exaggeration. But I don't think so. I also think that the Kitty-cat Killer has a good ring to it, although one would assume they kill cats. That would probably be confusing, so I take back my previous statement.
It's good to note that the thought of inconveniencing others is a good motivator to keep running and not die. Well, it is for me, it might not be for you, especially if you happen to be a jerk. I'm not sure what you should use to motivate your not dying if you're a jerk. Maybe the thought that if you did drop dead, or, I guess, close to death, you'd give the opportunity for some dogooder to feel good about themselves for saving your life despite you swearing at them the whole time. I'm assuming you would swear at them, but I'm not a jerk, so I don't know, maybe you would bite them instead. Well, at least, I don't think I'm a jerk, but I guess no one really does, which is why sometimes I like to just tell people they're a jerk. Now that I think about it, that's probably one of the things that makes me a jerk. Don't worry, I'll tell myself later, when I'm not busy thinking about how much I love my new bike.
This new love began from the moment I started my test ride. It was like in the movie Avatar. But with a bike instead of a dragonesque creature with a name I can't remember and don't care to google. I've named her Melvina. She was originally named Melvin before I realized she'd really rather be a girl bike. I do not judge. Gender choices aside, I knew I could not live without her and bought her, along with a massive locking system to prevent the severe dehydration that would result from our ever being separated.
Part of the bike buying plan was that I would ride it to work. This plan was further supported by the massive drop in available budget incurred buying Melvina, effectively cutting out my TTC funds. It's okay, because the public transportation situation was starting to bug me. One day, I was on the bus and a rider started batting at my shopping bag. That's right, batting, like a kitty-cat would. Then her stared straight at me. Like a kitty-cat. Nothing else about him said kitty-cat, which made the entire interaction just scream "psychokiller". Perhaps psychokiller is an exaggeration. But I don't think so. I also think that the Kitty-cat Killer has a good ring to it, although one would assume they kill cats. That would probably be confusing, so I take back my previous statement.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Who keeps Googling "Cereal Face Guy"?
Hello loyal followers (ie. family) and people that typed in the wrong URL or were looking for information on "cereal face guy"! (Oh, the "cereal face guy" thing is an inside joke, by which I mean, inside my own head...unless I blogged it already, which I wouldn't know, because I don't really read this blog. It doesn't interest me.)
I bet you didn't think you'd be hearing from me again. Or you did. I know it's one of the two. I'd meant to get in another post before August ended, but then it did, and I didn't. Life has changed. I am now employed, as my mother probably told you, (unless you are my mother, in which case I told you). I also am moving into the big room in my apartment, which offers excellent new private dance party potential. I've been running a lot, which makes for good conversation about how sore my muscles are, so I am making many friends. My point? I've moved on, my dear blog reading friends.
Actually, that is untrue, obviously, because I'm writing this. It seemed for a time that maybe the part of my brain that makes me blog had finally been blogged out, that the month and a half of daily writing had finally gotten out all the crazy and left me with only sane. Actually, it didn't seem that way at all, it was more like I'd gotten out all the entertaining crazy and was left with only the boring crazy (you know, emotions and crap...although, some emotions can be entertaining crazy, like righteous anger about trivial issues, which, I believe, is comedy gold).
So, I decided that the more interesting crazy side of me might be returning when I was on the subway last night and saw a woman in uniform and immediately thought that maybe she was a ghostbuster. It was only for a split second, then I though "That's odd, that my mind would jump to ghostbuster". I was correct, it is very strange. First of all, I haven't encountered a ghost here in ages, so I can't see how a ghostbuster could survive in this economic climate. Second, even if they could, I don't imagine they could afford to have uniforms, you know, with needing to eat and all. Although, I bet just one Stay Puft Marshmallow Man would feed you for a few years. I don't think they really can go bad, since there's not any real food in them. But, if that was the case, I'd expect more signs of scurvy and such. So, in conclusion, I suspect she was not a ghostbuster.
I bet you didn't think you'd be hearing from me again. Or you did. I know it's one of the two. I'd meant to get in another post before August ended, but then it did, and I didn't. Life has changed. I am now employed, as my mother probably told you, (unless you are my mother, in which case I told you). I also am moving into the big room in my apartment, which offers excellent new private dance party potential. I've been running a lot, which makes for good conversation about how sore my muscles are, so I am making many friends. My point? I've moved on, my dear blog reading friends.
Actually, that is untrue, obviously, because I'm writing this. It seemed for a time that maybe the part of my brain that makes me blog had finally been blogged out, that the month and a half of daily writing had finally gotten out all the crazy and left me with only sane. Actually, it didn't seem that way at all, it was more like I'd gotten out all the entertaining crazy and was left with only the boring crazy (you know, emotions and crap...although, some emotions can be entertaining crazy, like righteous anger about trivial issues, which, I believe, is comedy gold).
So, I decided that the more interesting crazy side of me might be returning when I was on the subway last night and saw a woman in uniform and immediately thought that maybe she was a ghostbuster. It was only for a split second, then I though "That's odd, that my mind would jump to ghostbuster". I was correct, it is very strange. First of all, I haven't encountered a ghost here in ages, so I can't see how a ghostbuster could survive in this economic climate. Second, even if they could, I don't imagine they could afford to have uniforms, you know, with needing to eat and all. Although, I bet just one Stay Puft Marshmallow Man would feed you for a few years. I don't think they really can go bad, since there's not any real food in them. But, if that was the case, I'd expect more signs of scurvy and such. So, in conclusion, I suspect she was not a ghostbuster.
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