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.

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.

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.

It's probably best not alienate ones primary audience...

It's been awhile since my last post, as I was reminded of by my family multiple times when I saw them. I was hoping that my 10 year old cousin (who, at this moment, I can't remember if I nicknamed before, so I'm going to leave it blank until the search function loads on my computer) would start her own blog and I could just link to it, because I'm lazy like that. She said she had nothing to write about. I think the musing of a 10 year old would probably be much more fascinating than this, if only because I remember at 9 years old, I spent most of my time writing stories about accidentally poisoning my teachers or highly dysfunctional families with well timed fatal accidents. I would have used an example from when I was 10, but I can't really remember what I thought at 10. I suspect I mainly thought, "Wow, I was a pretty effed up 9 year old, I should try to lay low for a couple of years."

My cousin with the forgotten nickname (or non-existent one) then suggested she would write a blog about me and the times she sees me, which was flattering. But I'm not sure how many people want to read a blog about how awesome I am at Scattergories. However, that is the blog I now plan on writing, because I'm really really good at Scattergories, even if those playing with me refuse to accept it. For example, under "Kind of Candy" starting with "D" I wrote "Delicious", which was highly disputed, because my family is full of jealousy over my ability to think outside their Scattergories box. The fact remains that there are 2 kinds of candy in my world: delicious and not delicious. Those that contest that delicious is not a kind of candy should be forced to eat the free candy from the Korean Grocery store that is all over my apartment (as you might have guessed, it's not delicious, because it would never survive living with me otherwise...by the way, please come eat my candy). Really, in the end, delicious is not only an acceptable kind of candy, it's the only kind that matters. Regardless, I love Scattergories, mainly for the fights. But don't tell my family, even though I'm beginning to suspect they're the only people still reading this, so they might still figure it out.

It's always disappointing to go to family events and realize that you have no anecdotes left because you've blogged them all. I guess it could encourage me to live more life, or at least lie more often, but instead I've allowed it to stop the blogging. For example, two weeks ago, what I imagine to be a felon, probably some sort of bank robber or serial killer, crashed on the road behind our apartment hopped the fence running from the cops. It was very exciting. Later, they had dogs searching. That was also exciting. But I did not blog it so that I would have something to talk about with my family that wasn't a repeat. I mean, I'm the type of person who will watch a good sitcom over and over again and still laugh because I'm simple and such, but I know that my parents will buy entire shows on DVD that I eventually steal forever, because once they've seen it once, it's all over. The point is, I don't think they appreciate my repeats very much.

I suppose I could just stay quiet in family situations, but I worry eventually I'll forget how to talk or my tongue will atrophy, and I do so love to talk. Maybe I could just spend a lot of time playing Shadow. If you do not know or remember what Shadow is, you might need to return to grade school. It usually begins with one child saying "Want to play shadow?" and then the other child repeating it, then it goes back and forth for an hour or two until the weaker child's head explodes. As an adult, it's much more fun, because the other person usually believes they're too mature for it, so you get to repeat a larger variety of statements, like, "What are you doing?" and "Please, for the love of God, just stop that." Well, I imagine it's more fun, I haven't actually tried it yet, because I'm fond of having friends. But family is different, because they have to keep dealing with you. That's why god gave us families, so that all our most annoying traits would have somewhere to flourish, without restraint. So, I might keep blogging, and then just play Shadow more often. But not during Scattergories, because that's serious time.

I've been racking up the happy songs during my brief hiatus, but I also forgot which ones I've already used. I should have kept a list. I've realized that any song about New York brings me joy. Examples include New York, New York; Empire State of Mind; NYC; and A Heart in New York. I've never actually been to New York, but I suspect that if I could make it there, I'd make it anywhere. For now, I'm yet to make it anywhere, but give me time, or maybe give me money, because that would also be useful.

Oh, my family also kept asking me how the novel is going. The answer is, I'm fond of empty internet promises, but I still might write it anyways. It will most likely be gibberish, especially since a month is quickly turning into only a week to finish it.

Is there anything illegal about plotting against yourself?

Since finishing school and deciding to defer board exams to February, I've been feeling a tremendous need for deadlines. I've realized that without clear, tangible goals, I end up actually looking at my life and trying to improve as a human being in ways that are not objectively measurable. I don't care for this. I much prefer my self-reflection to occur in short spurts, usually ending with the thought, "I'll take care of that when I have the time, but right now I need to focus on ______" (with "______", in most cases, being a trivial wheel-spinning like task that somehow makes me feel important).

I mean, I still have long term goals, like passing boards and generally being awesome, but, for now, they're not enough to fill the days. Getting a job is a short term goal to prevent starvation, but searching for one doesn't really feed my urge for productivity. I could probably blog more often again...but I won't (sorry Jennijen).

In general, I'm not an A type personality. If anything, I'm A/B. You know, just organized enough to piss off the slackers, but just lazy enough to irritate the hard-core overachievers. I like it this way, I makes me feel like my Yin and Yang are in balance (also, of course, because it maximizes irritation to others). But, now that I'm free of stress, my B side has been so overindulged that the A side is jumping out. I want to plan and control everything in my surroundings. If there is a problem, I will solve it, even if it's best left alone, or imaginary. Most are imaginary. It's difficult to solve imaginary problems, mainly because there is an infinite supply of imaginary obstacles. Plus, even once your solve it, there are just more imaginary problems right behind it. It's very tiring.

So, I'm going crazy because the A side of my personality is taking over, and, to be perfectly honest, I hate that bitch. But, not to worry, as always, I have a plan. And by I have a plan, I mean the side of my personality that I just outright slandered (Wait...libeled. Although this is all sort of talked out in my head as I write it down, so it's sort of like slander. Not really though. Wait, but if it's true that my A side is a bitch, then have I really done either? Why is life so hard?) has a plan. Well, many plans. So many plans that my A side won't know what hit it and will eventually calm down, allowing my B side to bask in the glory that is summer freedom.

The first, promise baking to anyone who crosses my path. Birthday? I got ya covered. Excessive studying? Let me feed that sugar craving. Trying to lose weight? Oh wait, we might have a problem, but do you want a cupcake anyways?

The second plan is to attempt to be a vegetarian again without starving to death. This plan was thwarted quickly by a friends birthday celebration at a Korean BBQ, where I ingested a good months worth of meat. I'm trying again and hoping I don't randomly come across a large stash of unclaimed steak. You know, because eating random meat you find on the street is always intelligent. Well, it might be, if you just saw it fall off a truck of a trusted meat distributor. Of course, you could probably trace it if that happened, and would need to return it to the proper authorities as a responsible and ethical citizen. Which leaves me as a vegetarian for the time being, unless offered free meat. Or bored and craving Korean BBQ.

The third (and last plan I will discuss here, as I have too many random plans flitting through my head to fully document) is to write a novel in a month. I know that November is apparently supposed to be the month for writing a novel in a month, but I'm going to be busy with other things in November, so why not now? Well, why not might be because I don't have a plot or characters or a setting, or really anything that could make a novel other than a vague sense of the tone I'd like. And even that I can't describe in words. But, I figure if I don't force myself to do it now, when will I force myself? The answer is never, which is probably a good answer, because, seriously, what's the point? However, in the interest of kicking my A personality back into submission, I will take on this task. You will most likely never see the results, well, not unless you are family or a close friend who I am willing to torture by forcing you to read a large number of jumbled words I tossed out in a month in an inane attempt to regain my sanity.

You know what I haven't done in a long time? Listed a happy song. Luckily, I've recently been obsessed with the song Tightrope by Janelle Monae, mainly because I can't listen to it without dancing like a crazy person, so my abs are getting really tight. Now I'm off to write stuff that is not this.

I'm back, sort of, for now, but probably not tomorrow or the next day

So, you may have thought that I'd forgotten about this blog. I have not, I have however, knowingly neglected it. It's not that I don't care about it anymore, it's just that it's summer, and I'm happy, and I'm starting to think all my best rants might be rooted in neurosis and generalized anxiety. I'm sure something will throw me off soon, and then we're back in business.

Last night, I copied some of my posts into I Write Like because apparently it's all the rage. My first result was Chuck Palahniuk, which was interesting since it wasn't even on of the ones where I referenced Fight Club. Those came up as Cory Doctorow. I don't really know who that is, but I think Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom is an awesome title.

I've put in a bunch of different posts and gotten at least 10 different people that I write like. I'm not sure that this site is incredibly accurate. Or maybe I just don't really write like anyone, but it has to spit out a name, so it does so at random. That's probably for the best, since I don't want to be the person that broke I Write Like. I feel that the Twitter community would take vengeance swiftly.

One might also theorize that each post comes up with a different author because my writing is so erratic and inconsistent. I don't care for this theory, so please stop that.

Banana brain goo

The world is too hot to blog. My brain is actually in a puddle on the floor, but I scooped it up a few days ago to write the following, and then didn't publish it, but now I will, because, otherwise nothing is going to posted for a very long time if summer keeps this up. I would like to visit Antarctica and hang out with the penguins. I mentioned this to a friend, and they said, you know it's winter there, right? And I do. I'd wanted to say Alaska and hang out with the polar bears, but the 24 hour days are probably as bad as the heat.

The other day, I went to Canada's Wonderland with my friend Nicola Tupperstein who was visiting from out west. We ate foot long hot dogs and rode all the roller coasters, except for the boring ones. Then we had a cookiewich. Really, it was a recipe for indigestion, but totally worth it.

As we were walking through a semi-secluded path where it was possible to hear the various screams coming from the rides around us, Nicola speculated that this would be a great place to hurt someone, because no one would hear the screams. Sometimes, when people live far away, you can forget exactly how terrifying they are. In case you're wondering, she did not kill me.

We also saw some teens who had won a human-sized stuffed banana and were trying to put it in their not-human-sized backpack. It wasn't working. I could have predicted that, which is why I only try to win obscenely large stuffed animals at the end of the day. Nicola asked what one would do with such a banana. "Well," I said, "It will probably sit around their bedroom for awhile, until they go to university, where it will be brought out while drinking and humped periodically. Then, eventually, it will be trashed by his future wife." I had that banana's number, but I think that's because I've always been skilled at reading bananas.