Death, pt.2

Every time I am seriously ill, I think that I am dying. I don't know why I am so morbid, but it's just the way it is. That's my fate: to be morbid and on the verge of death perhaps.
So, I went to the doctors after Extreme pain in, on and around, as my Grammy B would say, "lower nether regions" (now is the time to exit this screen if you can't take the extreme talk). I used to make every one who went down south to fill out an application, take me to dinner and successfully pass a Polygraph test to see it. But, ever since I've come of age and grew into myself (aka, got older and wiser and less bashful), I let everyone who's interested take passage down in the nether regions. My goal, like I told my very supportive, probably weirded out, boyfriend how it was my goal in life to have as many people as possible see my Whositwhatsits. So far, I am up to: 6 doctors and nurse practitioners. Six....not including countless one night stands (just kidding, loyal readers, relatives, and the Englishman). I am only 21 years of age.....already 6 people. I haven't even had a CHILD come out of my WHOSITWHATSITS!! I like to think I'd go down in history....maybe make the newspapers and have people blog randomly about my blog. It'll happen.
Also, I like to give nicknames to all of my parts...especially the ones I can't see. Especially my nether regions. Like my ovaries, I named Bert and Frank (it came to me in a dream, I swear).
The V zone, I give TONS of names. TONS. One of which is Whositwhatsits. Another of which is The Holy Grail.
Anyway, so I went to Dr. Moustache (he had a great, large, white, moustache) and after asking me if two students and an RN could watch my doctor perform a whatever procedure he does down there, there was so many people that I could hold a lecture, a class, conduct a statistically sound survey and probably write a research paper about my experience.
There was so many people in the room.....my Whositwhatsits probably felt special. After doing whatever the hell he's digging around down there, he looks up at me and says, "Your problems can probably be reduced by almost eliminating carbohydrate and sugar intake."
Then I say, "WHAT."
At this point, he probably misunderstood and thought I did not know what carbohydrate means....because he said, "Like, pasta, rice, potatoes, candy, sugar, and chocolate."
MY LIFE IS OVER.
THIS IS THE END OF ME.
After the shock of being naked, embarrassed, red-in-the-face and insulted by even the mention of giving up the holy trinity of foods: Pasta, Potatoes, Chocolate....I said, absolutely serious, "What else is there to eat?"--me
At this time.....probably due to the nudity....the only thing I could come up with to eat, after all of those eliminations was: WATER.
In my head, I thought, Could I only eat water for the rest of my life. That's gonna be rough.

Of course, Dr. Moustache starts rattling off the limited number of options:
"Well, there is meat..."
Then I said, "DONE."
And then, he smiled and continued..."Vegetables..."
"Ooh....well. We'll see," I said with squinted eyes and a frowned mouth.
This is how I am leaving this world, I am sure of it.
"And dairy is okay too."--Dr. Moustache.
"Well....I think I am lactose intolerant, so.....probably not."
"And....fruit. Fresh fruit."---D.M.
"Well, that's okay...but, we'll have to negotiate the other foods. I can't just eat meat and bananas for the rest of my life."---me
(Literally stuttering), "Bbbut, what about the vegetables?"---D.M.
"Vegetables might have to take a backseat....or earn my respect."---me
I am so funny in the nude and exposed to 4 people in the medical realm.

next up.....Dreams I've had.

Death

I have been having a lot of health problems and if you can't bear to read about it in this delightful post, I suggest you man up and click the reddish box in the upper right hand corner of your laptop's screen.
So, I've been having a lot of health problems and since I can handle almost anything (or, at least I THINK I can handle almost anything life throws at me), having a health scare is very weird to me. I can't buck up and handle it. Let's just say, tears and me have been acquainted recently. So, I couldn't figure out what was going on, and after a half-hearted, super-failed attempt at self-medicating, I went to the doctor's office. Besides, I recently had a dream that I was going to die soon....so I figured I'd play into the karma/destiny game and speed the process along. And, the pain I was feeling resembled death, so I checked in! I have health insurance, so why not?
What is with doctor's offices anyway? They are always rambling on and on about privacy policies, yet, I always know everyone's business in the waiting room. Just by overhearing their conversations with the registered nurses and the receptionist and the medical biller and coder. I know their symptoms, their Social Security Number, their copay and their doctor. Even if I had a mind like a steel trap, I would not know what to do with a SSN. I still don't know what goes on with a SSN. Then, there is the waiting room. And...if there is no television or magazines (which this one lacked), all there is to do is talk. And, the relation between chit chatters and age is a positive correlation (aka, as age increases, the tendency to gossip and chitchat increases too). What's worse, the older you get, the state of your health worsens. Anyway, chit chatters, by nature, want to know your business and more importantly, want you to know their business. So, I got the scoop on a very gentlemanly fellow. Had trouble parking, was very hot in the waiting room....wanted a magazine, but couldn't find any....was waiting for a long time....was only in for a check up.
To be continued.....

Everyone's a critic, I am a fan of none.

I went to visit my oh-so-lovely western European Senior Seminar professor, from France or Switzerland (who has great looking lips and a great hint of an accent) and we went over a couple of papers I have written about history (you know how I do). I think I write more history papers than I have had original thoughts. Number of original thoughts: 16, number of history papers written in life, 39+.
So, Good Lips and I chitchatted about all that was wrong with my papers. One of my papers was an opinion piece about me as a writer. He made me (and the whole class) write about our strengths and weaknesses as a writer. For me, I can't stand criticism. Helpful or not, I do not appreciate any one's opinion. I wrote this, among other problems in paper #1. After having read these insightful, amazing opinions, he then critiques my faults in paper #2. HELLO!!!?!?!??!!?!!! I don't like criticism!! Stop criticizing my beautifully constructed, error-free paper that has little to no faults. ever. never ever. Then, after criticizing my paper(s), he looks deep into my eyes and....silence. No words. I have nothing to say either. Yet, he examines my eyes still. Then, he looks at me and says, "I can tell from my comments and your expression (I swear, I put my BEST, best poker face on) that you don't appreciate or like criticism."
And then, I swear, I tried to hold it in....I said, "Actually, I hate it. Loathe it. Can't stand it."
Then after seeing past his curvy lips, I looked into his eyes and again....silence. So not American. If he was an American, he would have spoke up....told me to 'Buck Up'.... and then given me more unhelpful, helpful advice. But, he was silent.
Then, after all of this unbearable silence, I said, "Sorry....I really am....it's just that....this paper is over. M'over it (translated to, 'I am over it.')."
The meeting was pretty much over after that remark.

Up next: look forward to: my weird body probs, dreams, and a post about death.

You're welcome, Webster Dictionary.

Sometimes, I like to create my own words. Yes, out of thin air. Yes, for no good reason and for no one's benefit except my own.
For instance: jokery. Jokery, meaning the action and sequence of joking around. In a sentence, "No one understands my jokery. I'm just joking and they ain't feeling my jokes."

Also, cynicality: cynicism which can get you into trouble, like a technicality. In a sentence, "My cynicality made me unfavorable with the folks in my Bingo group."

Next, preditated. A lousy joke or punchline which one could smell coming from across the room....like a predator...in which, you were the predator, yet being preyed upon, all at the same time. What irony! For instance, in a sentence, "During the sermon, when the church lights came back on, I preditated he was going to say, 'And God said let there be light...'."

Lastly (for now), ignorenda. This is when you ignore someone in hopes of procuring your own agenda. Used in a sentence, "I was so mad at her that I initiated the ignorenda. Hopefully she'll call and apologize tomorrow."

My cats, myself.

I started housesitting for a professor who is out of town and in her house she has these adorable cats. I never really spent time with cats, I've never had any of my own (even though my biological clock is ticking and if I wanted a family, I should start having cats now, so they tell me). haha
Public Service Announcement
***I am literally, Always Joking. Don't take me seriously.***

So, the more time I spend with cats, the more I realize that they are just like me. When they are hungry, the circle the kitchen. So do I!
When they eat, they are very defensive about their food. So am I!
When they are finished, they want more. Me too.
They sleep all day, they play all the time, they want to be rubbed on and heavily petted. What. a. coincidence! Seriously, they nap all of the time. Dogs are such different creatures to cats....dogs take naps if you do, but cats take naps all of the time. All day, all night. Up for minutes, then they turn around a sleep for hours.
I like how snobby cats are. I want to play, so I throw a toy, then they look at the toy, then up at you, give you the stink eye then walk away. So snobby.
I never thought I would say this (because I am a registered Dog Person), but I like cats, or rather, I like these cats.

Stuff White People, like me, Like.

I read this book recently and it gave me an idea for a blogpost:
The Book: Stuff White People Like, which was based on a blog by a funny man.
Here's what is true for me (which may or may not correspond with the book):
1. Ipods. White people can't get enough Apple gear. My bff, Dr. W, we'll call her lost her Ipod and could not live another hour.
Don't get me wrong, I love music when I work out, but not to block out the sounds of oncoming traffic on my way to school. I need both ears to hear the squealing tires I initiated when I crossed the street without looking. Both ears.
2. Farmers' Markets. White people can't get enough of fresh veggies that aren't tainted by the scheming corporate America. This is also related to those reusable grocery bags. Whites love to carry around those bags, chock them full of 2 dollar uber ripe tomatoes and 4 dollar sack o' apples from local growers.
3. Religions their parents don't belong to. I know a lot of kids who converted to Judaism or became Buddhist or Athesist and as it turns out: they are all white and their parents are not those religions. Why? Who knows. Maybe it was because of their neglect and contempt and resentment for their parents' religions. Maybe it was because of their higher education. Maybe it was one to many hits off the old b***.
4. Yoga. This one was also in the book. People go crazy for crossing their legs and doing little to know actual exercise. Sorry folks, it's true. I could do yoga all day....in my sleep....while having tuberculosis....in three feet of snow. Yoga is too easy and white people love it. LOVE IT.
5. Another thing not on the list is having a show that no one else watches. For me, it's Star Trek, TNG. For others, it's Flight of the Conchords, may it rest in peace. For other groups of people, it's Mad Men (like my roomie). Even more people like to watch The Colbert Report. Some even watch Real Housewives of whatever-rich-place-the producers-came-up-with-this-season. All of the these are white people shows. Some people have a daily talk show they like to watch.
6. Having a strange disease or ailment no one knows about or can fix, yet said white person will continue to talk about ailment for weeks and years to come.
For me, I am lactose intolerant. No cure. No remedy, really. Yet, I still complain about it to anyone with ears....or another ailment they can relate to mine.
7. Drinks.
White people love their drinks.
Tea, chi, green, black, grey, cold, hot.
Coffee
Weird wine (this is my forte)
Beers, imported, exported, draft, ale, inhaled, exhaled.
Flavored waters
soda *aka pop, aka coke aka sodapop aka sugarwater*
smoothies--why do people even get smoothies. It's really not that much better for you than a milkshake....plus it tastes like chalk, when that chalk is rotten. Plus, people always add a shot of immunity boosting supplements. Why? really? Really. Why? Are you not getting enough vitamin c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, k, l, m, n, o, p and zinc with your veggies from the farmers' market? Stop adding those chalking supplements to your weird combo smoothie. What is with those combos. Orange+strawberry+blueberry=gross.

Bingo, prunes, AARP

In many ways, I have an old soul. Yes, in some ways, I am very child-like and playful. But, mostly, I have an old soul. I like oldies hits (hits from the 50s, 60s and 70s) and not in a cool, hipster sort of way. I like BINGO, I like to eat early and I definitely enjoy naps. I used to loathe laying down in the middle of a perfectly good day. My, oh my, have the times changed. I love to sleep.
I love to take naps. I get cranky if I don't sleep 13 out of the 24 hours in a day. I love to complain about "kids today" and talk about how "when I was your age things were different." I am an old person (but I am only 21 years old). I am THE stereotypical old person. I don't like rad, hip cars, I prefer Hondas and Volvos (even though I drive a Pontiac). I get irrationally mad at people playing loud music, I talk about their future ear problems because of the decibels of music pounding their young ears. I get choked up about the war and the good ol' days on the beaches of......
I talk about gas prices, I enjoy listening to NPR and I like to use coupons whenever possible. Plus, like many older gentlemen and ladies, I am immune to the cold. People have to tell me to use extra coats because my skin isn't as sensitive to the elements as they were when I was young.
Why am I so old?
I'm not complaining; this is fact. I probably have most 70 year old men and women beat for oldness. They really need to work harder. I aim to succeed in the old realm.
I can just imagine myself in fifty years---what will I be like then?? Worse???
Or: here's another option:
Maybe I am like Benjamin Button--I'm just getting younger as time progresses.

Love

Recently, I have come to fully understand America's stance on love. Love. love. Big Love. regular love. Small love. No love.
We, as Americans are obsessed with love (and the lack thereof). We show love in cards, in gifts, in public displays of affection, in songs, in more songs, in poetry, in songs (all kinds of songs, really).
We also like to use metaphors and similes to talk about love. We, as Americans, love (here that word is again) to make huge generalizations about love. We also like to have cute, memorable sayings for love. For example:
Love is a battlefield.
All is fair in love and war.
Roses are red....sugar is sweet and I love you.
L...is for the way you look at me. O...is for the only one I see. Etc, etc.
Love will keep us together, think of me babe whenever.
Love your enemies as yourself.
Love; two minds, one thought. (WHAT???!?@?@????)
All you need is LOVE.
It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all (someone clearing who is a third party in a break up scenario....no one would say that if they are in the process of breaking up.)
Love the one yo' with.
The grandest one of all is those paintings that grandmas have in their bathrooms (my grandma has one in her bathroom) and it says: Love does not hope, love is kind, love is forgiving, love is not envy....etc, etc. By the time I am through reading all of those and analyzing my own love/life, I've been in the bathroom 36 minutes. I get so confused and my head gets dizzy---how am I supposed to remember so much from just one painting?? Ridiculous.
I like to invent my own.
Love is like a pineapple: Hard on the outside, sweet on the inside.
Love is like a pill. Difficult going down, once you got it, it's worth it.
Love is like a beach. Pretty rocky, expensive, you can find shells in the sand, you see grown adults half naked all of the time, someone there to get your back with sunblock. the end. (Although I've never been to the ocean, I am sure this is accurate)

Would the real slim veracity please stand up

There has been some question as the veracity of my blog posts. You know who you are.
All of my stories are real. I think I only embellished a little on a conversation (only for humor and dramatic appeal). The things I post are actual events. Let's face facts: Weird things happen to me. More weird things happen to me than to most people. I am a magnet for weird.
One time, I was in a college dormitory, checking my email (my house is living in the dark ages, without internet) and this strange girl is walking in my direction. This strange girl, you know the type. Probably weird in high school. Probably had a circle of weird friends. Fit in with her group, so not a loner, gets her kicks off of her unique sense of style. Wears a fedora hat, plaid pants, dyes her hair black. Well, anyway, she comes up to me and twists her body into an 'S' shape, like she's grooving, squints her face into an ugly squash, points her finger at me and says in a Gothic, British voice, "Helllll-OOOOO." It was reminiscent of the hunchback, from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Except, she was just trying to get a reaction from me. Here. I am the victim. She thinks I am some sort of uppity, sorority girl from the suburbs. Well. I have news for her. I am an uppity weird girl from the suburbs. HA!!! Fooled her, no?
Besides that, she has met her match for weird. I am the monster. I am the freak. She dubbed me WRONG. I am not some Marketing major (anymore) with a casual, usual, normal upbringing of conservative, orthodox normality. I am not normal. I am not the run-of-the-mill person you would run into. She has met her match for strange.
In response, the usual person would give her an awkward glance, scale the walls to pass by her and not (definitely not) respond. Normal people are hesitant to interact in any way outside their normality box. So, instead of being normal, I gave her a taste of her own medicine. In return to her saying, "Helllll-OOO," I said, "Why, Guuuuud Even'ing Govna. Top of the Morn on this merrrrrrry daye." (All in a goth brit accent and sly eyes with my own hunch back, snarling mouth and common temperment). Booyah, judge me at your own risk.