Move over for a damage case -- #673
So I'm a total mess right now.
A few entries ago I wrote about I might have broken a rib during a drunken punching contest with one of my buddies. Well, I broke a rib.
Quite stupidly, I decided to go to the gym a few days ago -- I had some aggression to work out involving the words "former girlfriend", "married" and "moving across country" -- and quite stupidly decided that it would be a good idea to do some push-ups. Like a lot. I had the Pantera cranked to eleven. Phil Anselmo called me a pussy. At least I think he did.
Anyway, the exercise didn't really hurt my chest that much (felt good, actually), until the next day when the muscles stretched. Then it hurt like hell. Lifting right arm above sixty degrees = pain. Getting up from worn indentation in futon cushion = pain. Breathing? Pain. So I did what any normal single man with a minor medical problem, limited income and sketchy health insurance would do. I tied on a buzz.
The beer did help. After ... oh, let's call it four ... my body had a nice comfortable numbness and my attitude was ... peppy. I couldn't really drive anywhere, so I decided to play with the DVR and watch about a month's worth of prerecorded "How I Met Your Mother." Don't look at me like that -- it's a good show. It's comforting white humor, Barney is funny, and I have a crush on Alyson Hannigan. Going back to when she was Willow, I guess. Any guy will agree that she's a keeper. Lily over Robin, Pam over Karen, and Charlotte over the other three skanks. That's how it works.
Anyway, I'm watching the show, judgment and balance impaired, and what is generally only mildly amusing is now outright hilarious. Seriously, slap bet episode? Did you see it? Fun-nee. Only laughing brings the pain. Like Method Man.
So now, today, my whole upper torso hurts because I think I further snapped my ribs during the prolonged drunken giggling fit that was the Robin Sparkles video. (Seriously, funny episode.) Compound that pain with a mild hangover: that would be enough, right? It's worse. I cut my ear.
How did I cut my ear? It's a long story. When people tell you that something is "a long story" it's obviously code for "I don't want to tell you because it's embarrassing." I cut my ear shaving. That happens, you say, sounds fairly normal. Except it was my inner ear. I was shaving my ear. I don't know what to say. I had some gross wispy hairs on the outside of my ear, I had a straight razor in my hand -- one of those vibrating battery-operated types with like eight blades -- I just got carried away.
Turns out that ears are pretty vascular, so just a tiny nick can produce about a gallon of blood. And I guess that, thanks to a softened immune system from years of self-destruction, I'm bleeding more profusely than a Prussian prince. (That's a hemophilia reference, if you were curious.) Unfortunately I had places to go and couldn't just bleed to death -- both internally and externally -- in the privacy of my own home, so I had to slap a band-aid on my ear like Vincent fucking Van Gogh. If anyone asks about why I have a band-aid on my ear, I'm telling them "It's a rap thing." I don't even know what that means.
So here I am, world. Shattered rib from letting a burly drunk Irish guy take a free wail at my chest, and subsequently laughing too hard at a CBS sitcom starring Neil Patrick Harris. Head feeling heavy and stuffed from one too many Blackberry Wheats. Bandaged ear from manscaping agenda gone horribly wrong. How I don't have a girlfriend is beyond me.
Defending The Boss
No man can break the ties that bind -- #92
Two things today.
First, last night I dug out the Bruce Springsteen, specifically "The River." One of my least favorite traits of my generation and the pop-culture bastions that define it is the sly jabbings that "hipsters" like to throw at Springsteen and his music. Didn't Chuck Klosterman call "Born to Run" stupid, or something to that effect? Anyway, at some point in the last decade it became real jejune to criticize The Boss -- criticism I get, loving the swell of irony and all. But I don't think it's warranted, especially when you consider the crap that we're listening to now. Springsteen wrote -- I'm pretty sure he died in a car wreck immediately after releasing "The Ghost of Tom Jode" -- some of the most poignant and emotional music EVER, and he absolutely slaved to create it. Some of the lyrics might be hokey (or populist, which is really the same thing), but America itself is hokey. Springsteen wrote a passioned song about wild neon nights along the boardwalk of Asbury Park, which is a total fucking dump. But there's something beautiful about the way that all of his music really dissects things and doesn't look at how things really are but accounts for what the were and where they're going, all at once.
I defy you to find a better album about marriage -- another American institution -- than "The River." It has everything: commitment, nagging mothers-in-law, boredom, wandering eyes, moments of joy and intimacy, terror, elation, fun and heartbreak, possible futures, impossible futures, and the looming fear of death.
That said, I don't know why I was listening to The River. And I also don't know why I had my second weird dream of the week. This time, my brother and I were traveling by subway to somewhere -- through New Jersey, strangely enough -- when we de-boarded because I had to get money from an ATM. The ATM dispensed tons of money (quarters, dollar bills, crumpled fives and tens). A nearby stranger offered to help, only I noticed that he was helping himself to more money that he was giving to me. No one else saw this. To my protest, my brother invited him home with us, for being so helpful. For some reason it was Christmas. My family fell in love with this person, who at some point in the journey became a women. But every time someone turned their back, this person was taking something from me: money, presents, food -- whatever. Finally I had enough. I grabbed her by the head, picked her up, and threw her outside. She landed on the concrete patio, crying. She was now an old woman. She was my mother.
I don't want to talk about it. This entry sucks.
Two things today.
First, last night I dug out the Bruce Springsteen, specifically "The River." One of my least favorite traits of my generation and the pop-culture bastions that define it is the sly jabbings that "hipsters" like to throw at Springsteen and his music. Didn't Chuck Klosterman call "Born to Run" stupid, or something to that effect? Anyway, at some point in the last decade it became real jejune to criticize The Boss -- criticism I get, loving the swell of irony and all. But I don't think it's warranted, especially when you consider the crap that we're listening to now. Springsteen wrote -- I'm pretty sure he died in a car wreck immediately after releasing "The Ghost of Tom Jode" -- some of the most poignant and emotional music EVER, and he absolutely slaved to create it. Some of the lyrics might be hokey (or populist, which is really the same thing), but America itself is hokey. Springsteen wrote a passioned song about wild neon nights along the boardwalk of Asbury Park, which is a total fucking dump. But there's something beautiful about the way that all of his music really dissects things and doesn't look at how things really are but accounts for what the were and where they're going, all at once.
I defy you to find a better album about marriage -- another American institution -- than "The River." It has everything: commitment, nagging mothers-in-law, boredom, wandering eyes, moments of joy and intimacy, terror, elation, fun and heartbreak, possible futures, impossible futures, and the looming fear of death.
That said, I don't know why I was listening to The River. And I also don't know why I had my second weird dream of the week. This time, my brother and I were traveling by subway to somewhere -- through New Jersey, strangely enough -- when we de-boarded because I had to get money from an ATM. The ATM dispensed tons of money (quarters, dollar bills, crumpled fives and tens). A nearby stranger offered to help, only I noticed that he was helping himself to more money that he was giving to me. No one else saw this. To my protest, my brother invited him home with us, for being so helpful. For some reason it was Christmas. My family fell in love with this person, who at some point in the journey became a women. But every time someone turned their back, this person was taking something from me: money, presents, food -- whatever. Finally I had enough. I grabbed her by the head, picked her up, and threw her outside. She landed on the concrete patio, crying. She was now an old woman. She was my mother.
I don't want to talk about it. This entry sucks.
Wasp Dream
Dive in warrior wasps queen wasp go! -- #672
Two nights ago I had a dream that wasps were crawling out of my skin.
I was on a playground with some people I know from law school -- not close friends, but people I occasionally associate with. Suddenly I noticed a wasp crawling on my right hand, between the area of my thumb and pointer finger. I brushed it off. But then there was another one, right in the same area. And then two. I continued to brush them off, trying not to freak out about it, because I was being attacked by wasps.
Then there was another one, partly emerging from under my skin. I watched him wriggle out through a pore, flutter his wings a few times, and then crawl down the length of my finger. The area between my thumb and fingers began to pulse, and soon another wasp head was wriggling out from that same spot, repeating the other's performance. I turned my arm and saw another wasp, breaking through the skin on my wrist. Another had burst through on the back of my hand.
They didn't hurt when they came out, or at least my dream-self wasn't being hurt by them. They did not sting me either. They emerged one at a time, from about four spots on my arm: slowly coming out, stretching their wings one or twice, and then crawling away. I brushed each one off as it emerged. I didn't want to crush them because I thought they would sting me. I didn't want anyone to see. I was embarrassed. I was riddled with wasps.
Dozens of them came out, though the entire process took only a few minutes. Eventually they stopped. I crushed one under my skin, hearing the sound of its thorax snapping and feeling the carcass bulge on my dermis. I had red lesions on my arm: a small surgical cut between my thumb and finger, a small pink hole on my wrists (like a stigmata), and a long red groove outside my forearm. Nothing hurt. And then I woke up.
What exactly does it mean? Why didn't they sting me? Where was I? Why with those people? Why were wasps crawling out from my skin?
I checked several sites online for interpretation, and it seems to mean exactly what you might think. Wasp signify anger, fear of being stung. But they were my wasps, crawling out from my right hand, the hand I use to write. Am I going to sting someone? Am I worried that those people might see me do it? Does my bloodstream course with wasp eggs, and now that the weather has changed, it is just a matter of time before my body releases these inner wasps, setting them out to sting the rest of the world?
This was an actual dream, probably the most vivid one that I've had in months. Wasp, crawling out from my skin. Itchy.
Two nights ago I had a dream that wasps were crawling out of my skin.
I was on a playground with some people I know from law school -- not close friends, but people I occasionally associate with. Suddenly I noticed a wasp crawling on my right hand, between the area of my thumb and pointer finger. I brushed it off. But then there was another one, right in the same area. And then two. I continued to brush them off, trying not to freak out about it, because I was being attacked by wasps.
Then there was another one, partly emerging from under my skin. I watched him wriggle out through a pore, flutter his wings a few times, and then crawl down the length of my finger. The area between my thumb and fingers began to pulse, and soon another wasp head was wriggling out from that same spot, repeating the other's performance. I turned my arm and saw another wasp, breaking through the skin on my wrist. Another had burst through on the back of my hand.
They didn't hurt when they came out, or at least my dream-self wasn't being hurt by them. They did not sting me either. They emerged one at a time, from about four spots on my arm: slowly coming out, stretching their wings one or twice, and then crawling away. I brushed each one off as it emerged. I didn't want to crush them because I thought they would sting me. I didn't want anyone to see. I was embarrassed. I was riddled with wasps.
Dozens of them came out, though the entire process took only a few minutes. Eventually they stopped. I crushed one under my skin, hearing the sound of its thorax snapping and feeling the carcass bulge on my dermis. I had red lesions on my arm: a small surgical cut between my thumb and finger, a small pink hole on my wrists (like a stigmata), and a long red groove outside my forearm. Nothing hurt. And then I woke up.
What exactly does it mean? Why didn't they sting me? Where was I? Why with those people? Why were wasps crawling out from my skin?
I checked several sites online for interpretation, and it seems to mean exactly what you might think. Wasp signify anger, fear of being stung. But they were my wasps, crawling out from my right hand, the hand I use to write. Am I going to sting someone? Am I worried that those people might see me do it? Does my bloodstream course with wasp eggs, and now that the weather has changed, it is just a matter of time before my body releases these inner wasps, setting them out to sting the rest of the world?
This was an actual dream, probably the most vivid one that I've had in months. Wasp, crawling out from my skin. Itchy.
Statement of Purpose
This blog got started in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout.
Five Things I’ve Done Since My Last Entry
5. Watched all four seasons of Home Movies on DVD
4. Successfully fought speeding ticket in traffic court
3. Vacuumed, bought lightbulbs
2. Shaved head
1. Finished law school
Regarding the last point, I’ve been struggling to find a way to come up with the perfect description of what it feels like to finish law school, but every time I write something, I sound like Albert Camus.
Thus ends three years of the hardest work in my life, full of sound and fury and a mortgage worth of debt.
I started this blog basically because I needed an outlet to complain about things, because there are many thinks in life worth complaining about. People that honk their horns in traffic jams, for example. Or getting old. Or the fact that God made your feet smell when you choose to wear sneakers with no socks on hot days. I think people deserve the right to know about these things, and I'm just the douchebag to tell them.
I also have the occasional funny story that goes nowhere. Like last Friday I was out at the town bar with one of my friends and we decided to have a punching contest. You get one unblocked shot to the upper body as hard as you can. Suffice to say, there were no winners, only two complete losers. I'm also 99% sure that he broke a few of my ribs. I turned 34 in a few months, by the way. And we're both future lawyers.
And while I'm at it, how about this:
Five Rationalizations Use for Getting Back With an Ex-Girlfriend
5. Pressured by randy characters on Grand Theft Auto
4. Felt insecure after given wrong drink order by Starbucks barista
3. Yankees win, August 18, 2003
2. Revenge
1. Caught up in moment by John Legend CD
The world need to know these thing, and occasionally I will be revealing intimate details about myself. It's a cry for identity, really. There's a scene in an early Faulkner book where a character carves her name in the wood of a windowsill, just to define her own existence. That will always be the answer to why. Because we live in a really difficult world that constantly wants to forget us and can't wait to kill us off (nature is undefeated in this contest). Our only chance is to scream when we can. Because eventually I'll be dead. And so will you too.
And then there is always my iPod, which I'm convinced knows me better than any other human being on the planet. And that's sad, but whatever. From time to time I'll be telling you about my iPod. So there.
Five Things I’ve Done Since My Last Entry
5. Watched all four seasons of Home Movies on DVD
4. Successfully fought speeding ticket in traffic court
3. Vacuumed, bought lightbulbs
2. Shaved head
1. Finished law school
Regarding the last point, I’ve been struggling to find a way to come up with the perfect description of what it feels like to finish law school, but every time I write something, I sound like Albert Camus.
Law school ended today. My last class was Family Law. At the end of class the professor had all the third-years stand up and receive applause from our classmates. There was some clapping, and then I collected my books and left. I walked away from campus and into town to buy cottage cheese. I ate it quietly in the basement of the library. It did not taste very good.
Thus ends three years of the hardest work in my life, full of sound and fury and a mortgage worth of debt.
I started this blog basically because I needed an outlet to complain about things, because there are many thinks in life worth complaining about. People that honk their horns in traffic jams, for example. Or getting old. Or the fact that God made your feet smell when you choose to wear sneakers with no socks on hot days. I think people deserve the right to know about these things, and I'm just the douchebag to tell them.
I also have the occasional funny story that goes nowhere. Like last Friday I was out at the town bar with one of my friends and we decided to have a punching contest. You get one unblocked shot to the upper body as hard as you can. Suffice to say, there were no winners, only two complete losers. I'm also 99% sure that he broke a few of my ribs. I turned 34 in a few months, by the way. And we're both future lawyers.
And while I'm at it, how about this:
Five Rationalizations Use for Getting Back With an Ex-Girlfriend
5. Pressured by randy characters on Grand Theft Auto
4. Felt insecure after given wrong drink order by Starbucks barista
3. Yankees win, August 18, 2003
2. Revenge
1. Caught up in moment by John Legend CD
The world need to know these thing, and occasionally I will be revealing intimate details about myself. It's a cry for identity, really. There's a scene in an early Faulkner book where a character carves her name in the wood of a windowsill, just to define her own existence. That will always be the answer to why. Because we live in a really difficult world that constantly wants to forget us and can't wait to kill us off (nature is undefeated in this contest). Our only chance is to scream when we can. Because eventually I'll be dead. And so will you too.
And then there is always my iPod, which I'm convinced knows me better than any other human being on the planet. And that's sad, but whatever. From time to time I'll be telling you about my iPod. So there.
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