Aaaannnnd 200

So I guess I have been boycotting puke for a pretty long time. I will stop at no ends to avoid vomiting. Even if it means writhing around in nausea and agony, dammit I will do it. I haven't puked since...11, maybe 12? I really can't recall the last time. So, having not done so for so long, I think I have build up a rather irrational fear of puking.

Last evening, I was going to Salt Lake with some friends. For reasons I can not fathom, I thought that eating week old leftovers from Rice King was not a horrible idea. Around midnight, I found that I was rather mistaken. I guess the first clue occurred when I had to have them pull the car over, and upon stopping, flung open the door and then proceeded to retch everything I have ever eaten into the gutter.

That taken care of, we decided it would be prudent to immediately head home. I sat in the back seat, hovering over a cup in case there still happened to be any remnants of Rice King still in my churning belly. I arrived home feeling no better. I decided that puking upon my mattress was less than desirable, so I grabbed my blanket and a pillow, and drug them (and myself) back down the stairs and into the bathroom. My roommate was kind enough to fetch me a rather large bowl in which to puke, so I fell asleep curled up around it. I have no idea how many times I half awoke dry heaving, but it was more than 7.

Around 6:30 I awoke with enough coherence to realize that I probably didn't want to be sleeping upon the bathroom floor any longer. I had the chills and my teeth were chattering uncontrollably. Sitting on the bathroom floor, wedged in between the toilet and the closet, more nauseous than I can ever recall feeling, teeth chattering loudly enough to wake anyone in the house, served to greatly reinforce my desire to never be a junky.

It took me about a half an hour to exit the bathroom and drag my pitiful carcass up on a couch. I would shove the puke bowl a few feet ahead of me on the floor, and then drag myself, the pillow, and blanket a couple feet in the same direction. At which point I would have to pause at wait for the nausea to dissipate to a non-puking threat level. Shove, drag, rest, repeat.

So I learned a few things. Puking...not so bad. Dry heaving, however, is pretty much as abhorrent as I mentally built up puking to be. I also found out that it is possible to survive a horrible bout of vomiting without one's mother there to provide moral support (although secretly I wished she was there rubbing my back and feeding me saltine crackers and coke.) I also learned that I am a much more stalwart and stable puker than I was in my childhood. The last puking evet that I can actually recall, I apparently did a lot of hopping and jumping about as I projected vomit into the toilet, thus causing only about half of it to actually make it in the watery bowl. I guess not having a mommy there to clean it up made me a bit more conscious of my aim.

So I pretty much spent the day in bed, eating Club multi-grain crackers (about 9) and trying to replenish some of the fluids that I had been ejecting, when I wasn't entirely too nauseous to do so. It is currently 8:45, and the sickness has, for the most part, dissipated. I guess I'm glad that my 200th post could mark the advent of such a monumental moment in my life. I knocked down my Berlin wall of puking. My Iron Curtain of vomit has been swept back. I can now be a semi normal human being, and puke somewhat more consistently without fear of the unknown.

Really, I never ever want to puke again.


Please pass the novocaine

I have not been to the dentist in over 8 years. This thought terrifies me. This terror snares me in a nice little catch 22; I avoid the dentist because I am afraid that my teeth are rotting out of my skull and I may have to therefore be euthanized. However, this dental evasion is likely simply exacerbating the hypothetical pain which I am avoiding.

I recently found out that I have dental insurance. It's time to pay the piper.

I feel though, that I have a rational and explainable fear of the dentist. When I was a young man growing up, I would go get orally worked upon by a stone age caveman witch doctor who had somehow miraculously been granted the appellation "dentist."

I must preface this by saying that I did have 1 good dental experience. That particular time they cranked up the nitrous oxide. Being in a terror induced state of hyperventilation, I sucked a pretty stellar amount of that gas into my lungs and, consequently, my brain. I never enjoyed being drilled upon so much. I was pretty high.

So, 8 years ago, after that previous legal drug induced high, I was rather looking forward to the dentist.

The first problem occurred when the nurse, despite my desperate pleadings, would not crank up the gas high enough to have the magical affects of the previous visit. Perhaps it was the shaking, and the begging for "just a little stronger hit," that made her wary.

So in came Dr. ham fisted neanderthal to apply the Novocaine. My eyes watered as he ruthlessly and repeatedly stabbed that needle all over my gums. That finally over, he sat there for what seemed to be a really inadequate amount of time for the numbness to kick in, and then began drilling. Instant pain shot through my jaw, as that tiny little drill began to penetrate the sensitive enamel of my tooth. "Ow ow ow ow ow ow owwww."
"Oh. Does that hurt still?"
"No shit," I didn't say.
"Uh huh."
Because that is all one really can say when his mouth is being held open by a metal clamp.

So, then began another round of shots. Again, followed by another inadequate waiting period. And then the drilling. Oh, the wretched drilling. And again, pain.
"Ow ow ow ow owwwwah."
"Still hurts huh?"
"Uh huh."

So he then again went to town with that insidious, pointy dispenser of Novocaine, seemingly administering twice as many shots as the previous round. This time, he waited a little longer. Finally, the drilling began with no pain. I was, however, numb for a solid 24 hours, rather than the usual 2 or 3. At that point, I vowed never to return to the dentist so long as I lived.

Now, 8 years later, I have realized the folly of that decision. Even though I brush my teeth religiously, I probably have all manner of little creatures dwelling in caves in my teeth. I have such an intense fear of needles, that I am terrified to go back. Lack of dental insurance has served as a good excuse in the past, but I now must face up to my fears, and probably go get a mouth full of silver.

I will bury those little creatures with copper, mercury, and silver-tin alloy, right along with my fears. I can't, however, promise not to cry while doing it.


Happiness comes in pairs

I think this would be the longest period of time I have been blogularly dormant. I guess I have been busy? I have been working a lot? I think the main culprit, would be a feeling of rather intense stupidity that has overcome me, due to a book I have been reading.

It has been a really long time since I read a book that completely confounded me. Or one which contains various words per page with which I am unfamiliar, or of which I am completely ignorant the definition. I mean, if I were reading a book about psychology, or sciences, I would expect such a thing. But not from a history book.

I found myself reading entire paragraphs, and after the fact having absolutely no idea what the hell I just read. Seriously, does anybody really use the word animus anymore?

So I think really what I am trying to say here, is that this book has killed my mind, and sucked all of the creative life out of me.

On a completely unrelated note, I have recently realized that I have an addiction, and I just might need an intervention. As a putative fashion snob, I have allowed myself to descend into the rather monetarily deleterious habit of constant, impetuous jean purchases. If ever I try on a pair of expensive jeans that look good and happen to be on sale for 30 dollars or less, I buy them. End of story. This has caused me to amass a collection of at least 24 pairs of jeans. I always just need one more pair of dark jeans. Or just one more pair of blue jeans.

Thinking about this over the last week or so has served simply to elucidate the fact that I am a vain individual. Or am I? Perhaps I simply have a love of jeans. Is that so bad?

One of the most ridiculous things about it, is the fact that I generally wear the same 2 or 3 pairs of jeans most of the time. Although, as I purchase new jeans those 2 or 3 pairs change. I guess I just like to think that if I ever decided not to wear the same jeans 4 days in a row, I could go for 24 days and not ever double up. That makes me feel safe.

I suppose I have always been fashion conscious to a certain extent. But it is interesting to me how I have had a slight paradigm shift over the last few years. A couple of years ago, the thought of being seen wearing the same thing in 2 separate weeks mortified me. I would wake up to get ready for school, and after making the clothing selection for the day, would wrack my brain to try to determine if I had worn those articles at any time during the previous 12-14 days. Now, I have 5 times as many clothing options as I ever had, and I wear virtually the same things over and over. Think I care?

Does anybody really care? As long as something looks good, I don't care how often a person wears it. I only really notice when someone wears something really terrible over and over again. Am I gay?

Do I need help?


Valentine's day mcnuggets

I think the last time that I really looked forward to Valentines day, was in grade school when we got to make giant heart shaped sacks, hang them from the front of our desks, and await the Valentines to pour in. I mean, what kid didn't feel loved, being bombarded with all manner of tiny photos of Power Rangers, Ninja Turtles, Barbies, Care Bears, and a plethora of other cartoon/toy characters proclaiming their love? Signed by Tommy, or Ashley, or Randy.

It was always so great, every girl and boy in the class desiring me to be their Valentine.

Why has that changed? I mean, not that I want boys to give me Valentines. But why are there not hordes of females proclaiming their love to me through novelty pictures and printed candy messages? I think I am infinitely more attractive now than I was during the grade school years. Baffling.

I mean, common. Right? RIGHT??

Now, instead of being showered with gifts of love, I get to serve food for 12 hours tomorrow, and feel really good about being alone.

If I don't make 200 dollars, I am going to throw myself off a bridge. Probably an overpass, since there are not truly viable suicide water bridges in Utah.

On a random side note, I wish that on Valentines day, McDonald's would print love messages on the chicken Mc'Nuggets. Except for, I would want them to be printed underneath the breading. I can just imagine the excitement one would feel upon skinning the nugget with one's teeth, and then holding that quivering little conglomerate of various chicken meats in one's hand, and reading "Ronald Loves You," dyed in red upon the pasty white nugget flesh.

Happy V day. I mean, tomorrow.


A kingdom lost

I haven't even turned on my computer since Friday, which I think might be a recent record for me. If I wasn't sitting in bed at noon, undressed and having skipped my class because I forgot to read, typing on said computer, I would pat myself on the back.

On Thursday night I went to a BYU class taught by Brandon Sanderson. In case you are not a science fiction/fantasy geek, (which you most likely aren't) Sanderson is a pretty big deal in the current world of literary nerdery. In fact, he was asked to finish the Wheel of Time series by the late Robert Jordan's wife and publisher. Which, considering it has sold over 40 million copies, and it's the 12th book in the series, blah blah blah, he isn't just your average professor teaching at the Lord's university.

He's a big freaking deal.

He is teaching a class on how to write science fiction/fantasy. I decided to go listen after hearing about it from a friend. While sitting there awaiting his arrival, it was interesting observing the people gathering in the class. They were pretty much everything you would expect from a group of aspiring fantasy authors; World of Warcraft "Horde" t-shirts, lots of cargo jeans, jet black button up shirts, and plenty of greasy hair parted down the middle. A literal hoard of nerdery, if you will.

I don't think I have ever been surrounded by that many people, and felt really confident that I was the most attractive person in the room. In fact I never have, as I don't consider myself to be too far beyond average. I certainly was the only one wearing clothing not purchased from Hot Topic/Mervyn's.

When Mr. Sanderson finally showed up, he was also just about what I had expected; hair parted down the middle with the "wet look," a weird fitting sweater thing that made his body appear somewhat akin to a pear, and quite possibly the most ill fitting jeans I have ever seen a person wear. I don't know if I could have trusted a fantasy author vested any other way.

I guess even when a nerd at heart becomes filthy rich, the nerdery can not be cleansed from his sweet, nerdy heart.

It was wonderful listening to people asking questions about building races of elves, how to create fight scenes, and how to write about dwarves and halflings and keep it original.

Secretly, I loved all of it. I don't care what anybody thinks; I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the science fiction/fantasy genre of literature. I will never, however, have a soft spot for World of Warcraft. Which, unfortunately, precludes me from becoming their king and liaison with the normal world.


Damn you barak obama

The minuscule amount of belly hair that I have is currently being sucked into my laptop fan, causing a rather unique and nerve wracking sensation. It tickles, yet I am filled with fear that if I breathe too deep, too much will suddenly be sucked in, causing the fan to seize up, possibly ripping out a painful portion of that useless man hair.

On a sad note, one of my most favorite dessert eateries has closed its doors. Today, Amanda, Colin, and I were craving Pudding on the Rice. Which, was pretty much exactly like what it sounded; an establishment dedicated entirely to unique and delicious rice pudding concoctions. As Javier (my black Honda civic with euro tail lights) neared said establishment, I screamed a cry of terrible, primal anguish upon seeing all the lights shut off. Pudding on the Rice had been reduced to nothing more than one more hollowed out shell next to a Lan party. How the Lan party (a place where the nerds of the world gather to indulge in all manner of digital nerdery i.e. World of Warcraft)can survive while a place providing the most exquisite of mouthgasims imaginable goes under is simply beyond me. Never again shall Raspberry Rousseau grace my palate with its sweet, decadent goodness.

Damn you economy!

Also, damn you Pudding on the Rice for placing your establishment in at least the 3rd shittiest location for any business in Provo.

And last of all, damn you Barak Obama for not bailing out Pudding on the Rice before she sank into the bitter depths of bankruptcy, from whence no pudding shall ever return.

I just want my Raspberry Rousseau. I NEED IT.


Thanks pantene pro-v

The woman in the light blue dress in the center of the photo may not have been in Carrabbas tonight, but her hair sure was.

A couple of husbands and several wives patronized our establishment this evening. If such a thing can be believed, the woman eating in Carrabbas had an even more intense wave than the girl with the uni-brow here. I don't know how they get so much volume. She could have had an entire covey of pigeons living in there and I'd have been none the wiser.

A polygamous covey.