- everyday is pants optional.
- drinking beer in the shower like a boss.
- blasting awful music at all hours of the day.
- no fighting with family/passive-aggressiveness with roommates.
- building cardboard time machines in the living room.
- slowly going feral, then suddenly returning from the brink.
I am going to miss living alone.
Because posting that tumblr story was clearly more important than looking after myself. I put my hand on my kneecap when I realized, “holy shit! that’s not my kneecap, that’s a giant bruise.”
It’s throbbing but it doesn’t hurt, which is good, right? Though it is kind of disturbing that I now have the equivalent of three knees.
I just got a late night expert medical opinion from Dr. Adam and Dr. Sexfluenza. They both agree that it’s now medically a bad idea for me to go to sleep. “Don’t go to sleep. Bruises always hurt more after you’ve slept. And you could have a concussion,” said Dr. Justin Sexfluenza.
“But I hit my knee, not my head.”
“A knee concussion,” Doktor Adam said, covering up for his colleague.
“You should build a makeshift brace,” said Dr. Sexfluenza.
“OUT OF CARDBOARD” said Doktor Adam.
“That was what I meant, out of cardboard.”
“Well I said it, I get the credit.”
Dr. Sexfluenza grumbled.
So now I’m making a 3 AM makeshift brace out of old beer cases.
I love my life.
It was past midnight and instead of going to bed like a regular person I decided to go for a walk, because outside I’m 23 but inside I’m 6 and think bed times are the worst kind of oppression imposed on us by The Man.
Anyways I’m walking home and there’s a guy playing a fiddle and busking for change in the parking lot of a convenience store. It was strange because that’s not a place people busk during the daytime, much less the night. I listened from a distance for a bit and then went to the Commons.
I decided to sit on one of the benches and listen to my ipod for a minute but it was late and it was foggy and I was an idiot and I didn’t realize the benches were wet and I slipped like a moron and I hit my knee and fell to the ground. I guess I said “fuck” kind of loud because a passerby stopped and asked if I was okay. My pride was hurt more than my knee so I said I was fine and he kept on his way. After a few minutes these drunken kids (well, not kids really) stumbled over and they didn’t realize I was there. Then they noticed me and talked to me for a minute and I told them how I slipped like an idiot and they told me they had been drinking downtown.
I finally went home and there were pieces of garlic outside my door. Logic would have me believe someone’s garbage bag busted on the way to the garbage chute, but my heart tells me that I am The Chosen One who will defeat the evil Halifax vampire cabal and the garlic was from my secret Obi-Wan Kenobi/Morpheus-ish protector and that soon I will have to start my ninja training.
Anyways it’s 2am and instead of sleeping before I leave tomorrow I’m going to stay up, pack a bag and look at cat pictures on the Internet. The life of The Chosen One: it’s rough, but someone has to do it.
Okay, I knew about Rollertown. And as for the TV show, I just thought you meant they were already on the air and I was going to be super pissed at myself for not knowing about this already. But it is still in production, according to Wikipedia.
Yeah, I had to binge on carrots as a toddler because my mom kept the alcohol on the top shelf, and also because I didn’t know that alcohol existed. It was a rough childhood.
As for whether or not carotenosis is real, I assure you that it is. I mean, at least in so far as it turns your skin yellow-orange and has a name. Wikipedia describes just how miserable and tragic it can get:
Carotenemia and carotenoderma is in itself harmless, and does not require treatment … when the use of high quantities of carotene is discontinued the skin color will return to normal.
So I grant you that even the most severe case of carotenosis is worlds better than being a FAS baby or having teeny tiny infant AIDS or toddler tuberculosis. But I guess every baby has his own cross to bear, right? Some of us get unceremoniously thrown into a dumpster because our mums aren’t ready for the burdens of parenthood, and some of us turn a weird colour from eating too many otherwise healthy vegetables. C’est la vie.
- When I was a toddler I wasn’t allowed to eat junk food, so instead I binged hard core on carrots. Not because I liked the taste. Have you ever tried a carrot? They’re fucking awful. No, I ate carrots because Bugs Bunny ate them and when you’re a kid you want to do whatever cartoons tell you to do. Anyways, I developed a severe case of carotenosis, in which my skin took on the characteristics of a carrot. I have not eaten a carrot since.
- I used to have a Japanese roommate who asked about the western tradition of carving turnips in autumn. Seriously, he thought we carved jack-o’-lanterns out of turnips. Not pumpkins, turnips. What a maroon. (Meanwhile I still don’t know anything about Japan except Godzilla, samurais and World War 2.)
- The proper restaurant etiquette response to the question “is there a vegetarian option?”, is “yes, you have the option to fuck off.” (With apologies to my one or two vegetarian friends.)
- In 1893, the United States supreme court ruled unanimously in Nix v. Hedden that tomatoes are vegetables, at least for the purpose of the 1883 Tariff Act on imported produce. The court conceded that, botanically speaking, a tomato is a fruit. The court declined to comment on whether you should call them to-may-toes or to-mah-toes, because seriously, who the fuck says to-mah-toe?
- Vegetables that have been used as aphrodisiacs: arugula, artichokes, lettuce, ginseng, deer peckers (technically it’s a meat not a vegetable, but also technically it’s still hilarious).
- Vegetables that have been used as gifts: onions (medieval Europe), melons (that one episode of Mad Men).
- Onions didn’t make people cry before 1946. Scientists believe this is the plants way of helping us remember the sacrifice of those who died in the war. Thanks onions. Thonions.
Holy fuck that’s dark.
A step-by-step look at my futile attempts at communicating with humans. This is going to be a long one.
Status: coming home to my apartment, approach elevator. There is an adult male also waiting for the elevator. It’s going to be a moment before the elevator arrives. Two younger males, possibly my age but I’d bet on younger, also walk up to the elevator.
Boy 1 [to older man]: salaam.
Man [to boy]: salaam.
Boy 2 [to man]: salaam.
Man [to boy]: salaam.
They all shake hands.
Inside my head: these guys don’t look like they know each other. You should get in on this greeting action. You win being human points by saying hello to people. Besides, you’re going to look like a dick if you just stand there and wait for the elevator. What are you, too good to say hello? Say hello, you dick. Okay, go for it: say it — wait a second! Did they say salaam or shalom? I mean, they both sound the same and mean ‘peace’ and are greetings but one is Jewish and one is Muslim and you’re going to look like an even bigger dick if you choose the wrong one. So which is it? Okay, old dude’s wearing… what is that?* It doesn’t matter what it’s called, Jews don’t wear them. Which means that by process of elimination they said salaam, not shalom. Probably. It doesn’t even matter. You’re looking like a giant dick by just standing there and not saying hello to your neighbours. Are you too good to say hello? No, you’re just an asshole. Seriously, say ‘hello’ so you don’t look like a colossal dick.
The older man repeats it to me and shakes my hand. The two kids nod but the elevator shows up and we all get on. We go to the twelfth floor and the man gets off. We continue on the elevator.
Boy 1: how do you know [name redacted]? Are you even —
Me [speaking quickly to justify myself, cutting him off]: oh, no. Uh, I was just being friendly. I-just-said-that-because-I-know-it’s-a-traditional-greeting evenifIjustnormallyjustsay”hi”. [pause to catch breath.] How do you know him?
Boy 2: he’s our history teacher.
Me: oh. I like history. I’ve recently been reading about —
Me [internally]: fuck it. Pick someone historical or quasi-historical that makes you look justified in saying salaam instead of hello, or you’re going to look like an even bigger dick. A galactic dick. Pick someone. Mohammad is too obvious. Aladdin? Sinbad? No, that makes it look like you don’t know what the word ‘history’ means, you asshole. Saladin? Too crusadery. Oh! Use what’s-his-face, from Einhard. The clock guy… Rashid!
Me: Haroun Rashid.
Me: he sent Charlemagne an elephant and the first clock. And he fought Jaffar. Seriously look him up he’s badass. Well here’s my stop, nice meeting you.
Me [internally]: well, that was better than the time you had that conversation while holding the door open for that girl, but not as good as the time you accidentally celebrated Chinese New Year. Go sit shame-faced in the corner and then we’ll work on repressing this memory forever.
Fuck. I was just trying to be friendly, but I screwed it up completely.
*Wikipedia told me it’s called a thawb, a traditional Muslim garment.
“In Mongolia, blood is considered a valuable food that should not be wasted. Hence their preferred method of slaughter: cut a hole under the ribcage and, with your arm deep inside the animal’s body, use a finger to sever the aorta. The heart, unaware of what’s happened, continues to pump blood into the chest cavity until the animal dies. It is difficult to watch—especially if, like me, you mistakenly believe the goal is to actually pull out the heart, Temple of Doom-style, and thus feel horrified when your host’s arm emerges empty-handed. But as grisly as the technique may sound, it is surprisingly efficient: Within 10 seconds, the sheep was dead.”
From Slate magazine