Pure Insanity, Las Vegas

I checked my followers on Twitter the other day, and it seems the network is not sending me any more emails when someone new follows me.  Lo and behold, my first celebrity:

The first and last time I conversed with Heidi Montag was in Vegas during my sojourn in February.  This was post-crazy surgery, pre-kicking Spencer Pratt to the curb.  She was under the heavy influence of something (possibly vodka but more likely pharmaceuticals) and he was carrying around a 'spirit stone.'

Pure Nightclub, Caesars Palace, Las Vegas

A friend of a friend who lives in Vegas was able to finagle VIP room access to Pure the night Speidi happened to be 'appearing' at the club.  Security cautioned us any patron found to be snapping photos would have their device confiscated.  Pratt kept on about spiritual energy and focusing on rocks, Montag could hardly speak through all the plastic.  I think a close-up flash off the shine would have blinded us all.

This was the last time they were seen in public together, before her breakdown and their eventual 'break up.'  Are they even divorced yet?  Perhaps she's stalking me through Twitter now.  Heidi totally wants to be up on this shizouka.

Mamma Mia

Everyone is messed up one way or another.  Not a single person has not been damaged in some way.  Of course, some more than others.  It's the lot we draw in life, the cross to bear.

My upbringing, I can say unabashedly, was really amazing.  I was fortunate enough to have two loving parents who always provided more than I could ever want.  I visited my extended family on both sides often.  Silver spoon and all that jazz.

Blah blah blah.  My mother has forever scarred me.*  Sigmund Freud would have a field day with this dissertation.

1. I nearly died in childbirth. (Birth)
True, this isn't necessarily HER fault, but I was born blue from lack of oxygen with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck and an APGAR score of 2 out of 5 after one minute.  For all the students at home, a 40 per cent.  Also, the gestational diabetes made me a super huge baby, 4.5 kg (ten lbs) and 22 inches long.  I barely fit in the incubator. 

I'm sure this is why I have a phobia of tight objects wrapped my neck and the need to always fit into small spaces.

2. She kicked me down the stairs.  Twice. (Age 13)
Okay, so I had told my little sister she was adopted.  My mother found her sobbing, packing her room because she had to move.  Therefore, mother called me to the second floor.  I slowly ascended the stairs while she was screaming unintelligible babble (to my ears).  When I hit the second-to-last stair, her anger reached a crescendo in which she pushed me down the stairs with her foot.  Face splotchy, she asked me to climb the stairs again before repeating the process.

I never told any sibling they were adopted again.

3. She threw the dog food and water dish at me. (Age 17)
I'm not sure what I did to cause this to happen, but I remember being in the kitchen when kibbles and water exploded everywhere.  With bits clattering across the tile, she commanded I clean the mess.

I probably wasn't looking after the dogs very well, but from then on I checked the dog dishes daily.

4. Burns on my neck. (Age 15)
Between haircuts, the hairline on my neck tends to become a little shaggy.  I usually had a brother or an older cousin straighten out the line every two weeks.  On this particular Sunday evening, there was no one available so I asked my mother. (These days I have perfected the hairline myself with two mirrors and a straight razor.)  For some reason, she thought an electric razor would be a better choice then a sideburns trimmer.

     a. She wasn't experienced with electric razors.
     b. She didn't hold it flush with the skin.
     c. She berated me, calling me a 'wienie' for squirming.
     d. She drew blood.

My neck was torn up so bad, I couldn't attend school the next day.  For the pain.  And to escape ridicule.

5. The Aeroporto Leonardo da Vinci di Fiumicino incident (Age 4)
Possibly the most traumatic event inflicted on me by my mother.  We had a short holiday in Italia which ended in Roma and were flying home to Barcelona.  My father had a business emergency and left a day before the rest of the family. With six children under the age of ten, including a newborn baby, my mother literally had her hands full.  Alitalia was dealing with flights and cancellations and therefore there were some gate changes.

See where this is heading?

This is partially my fault because I had a new Gameboy with awesome headphones.  I was toggling between Super Mario Land and Castlevania before I realized I was surrounded by unfamiliar faces.  Surreal colors began their journey across my eyes as my legs wandered aimlessly, hoping to run into my family.

Then, the Polizia di Stato with AK-47s surrounded me.  My four-year-old brain crapped its pants, I knew I would be in deep trouble for this infraction.  Turns out, the poliziotti (policemen) were alerted by the captain of my family's flight when my mother noticed after takeoff there was one seat unoccupied.  My father immediately flew to Roma to collect me from the holding room four hours later. 

The poliziotti told him I was a delightful child after they convinced me they were not deporting me to Israel.  Which is where my mother convinced me that bad children were sent to fight in the Holy Land.

It's so awesome I'm a well-adjusted individual today.  /sarcasm

*I love my mother dearly and this is in jest.  We laugh about all these occurrences often.

Some Kind of Substance

It's been a gorgeous past week and a half.  Great weather for hanging outside, hunting and fishing and hosting a yard sale.  Not being inside languishing from the lack of vitamin D has felt good for my skin and my soul.  Alaskan weather has blessed up with an Indian summer this year, probably to make up for the rain with all the raining and rain with the sheets of rain and buckets and driving and cats and dogs rain.



This isn't an excuse, WEATHER, I still want a refund for that summer.

Our farm has experienced its first frost of the year already.  The leaves are golden and the high cranberry bushes are a brilliant red. The moose are in the rut season and I was twice charged by a mother cow moose with a calf tonight.  My father was throwing rocks because it was eating the crab apple trees.  I just wanted a photo with my iPhone.

***

Apparently I'm funny or some shizouka because Geo Jeffrey of The Far Too Important Blog tagged me with an 'I Blog With Substance' award for his comedy category.

This is my first award.  I feel as nervous as a heretic tied to a stake.  What do I do??  Who do I thank?  There was some talk of blogging philosophy and lofty words that we probably won't understand together, so I'll just share a few stories about substance:

***

I was about fifteen and hitting my stride as a professional masturbator.  My favorite time was after school but before my parents arrived home.  I would lock myself in my room for some quality 'homework' time.  Sitting against my wall and naked on the floor, I don't remember what I was thinking about but it was enough only occupy around five minutes. 

This was no ordinary load as well.  I could hear a thwack as some substance struck the wall above my head, but unfortunately, some also arrived in both my eyes.  I threw my head back, smacked said drenched wall and yelled out in pain.  A few seconds later, my mother of all people starts knocking on my door, asking if everything is okay in there.  I didn't even know she was home already.  Horrible. 

I told her I stubbed my toe while changing.

***

A year earlier, when I was a week shy of my fourteenth birthday, my miracle brother Jacobus was born.  To celebrate, my father took his brood to an expensive seafood restaurant the day after his birth.  I scarfed down crab legs and shrimp cocktails, and topped the dinner off with a vanilla ice cream topped with hot fudge sundae. 

The next morning, I stumbled down the stairs clutching my midsection and moaning to my parents.  I stood next to my mother as she was making coffee and stated, "Mother, I don't feel so we---" and the substance of my stomach EXPLODED all over the counter.  Brown-colored crab meat and partically digested shrimp tails slapped against the tile backsplash.

The only comment from mi madre?  "Get out of the kitchen, you're going to make people sick!"

To this day, my cousins and siblings that witnessed this event only have to say "...you're gonna make people sick!" to have us rolling with laughter.

***

I don't remember when I discovered this, but I suffer from hemophobia.  I believe I was seven when I was riding my bike, and as children are prone to do, ended up scraping my knees against the cobblestone street.  Walking home was an easy task and it was not until I was locking my bike up that I noticed the two rivers of red flowing from my knees, staining my white socks.  I was confused at my sudden lack of oxygen and black spots appearing before my eyes.

Next I remember waking up with a lump at the base of my skull.  I checked my surroundings, then promptly passed out after discovering the dried blood substance on my legs.

To this day, I can't even watch FAKE blood on television.


***



So there, no one can say I don't blog with comedial substance ever again.  Also, to the person who searched for 'ishotmyself blogspot' and ended up here, REALLY?  And shame on you Google.  If someone shot thyself...I don't know if I'd want to read that blogspot.



Underland

Thank you so much to the kind comments and suggestions about the photographs. The blogging world never ceases to amaze me with feedback. 

For real, I would make all of your my Fellowship of the One Ring.  We would be a ragtag, special group that would probably not make it out of Rivendell before Orcs shot us with arrows and then that One Eye would see us because SOMEONE (I'm not mentioning whom) will be preoccupied with the PRECIOUS, you idiot.  Some of us would be eaten by a giant spider before others are stabbed by Ringwraiths and we would fall into the Mines of Moria and the One Ring would never make it to Mordor and therefore not be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom.  HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GET TO THE GREY HAVENS NOW YOU BUNCH OF IMBECILES?!

There have been little changes around here, I'm still trying to customize Blogger.  I wistfully remember the days where I coded my whole website.  These days, I'm a little rusty on HTML and CCS; and Blogger can be a little restrictive.  I suppose it's pretty nice for a free account.

I've also been making little changes in my life that are building up into major life decisions.  Whether or not to stay in this country.  Whether or not to start training for a trade or start applying for graduate school.

I need a huge change.  I have taken a step backwards in moving to my parents' farm.  It saved my life being able to do this, yet if I don't do something drastic soon, I could lose myself.  I know I will fall back into the doldrums of waking up, working, watching a movie, falling asleep.

I want to start working out again.  I risk reinjuring my foot.  Fuck it.  There is surgery, right?  I miss running and lifting weights.  It made me feel good to be drenched in sweat.  I tire so easily now.  I don't want to be old at 25.

Well, this Tylenol with codeine is kicking in.  Just wanted to check in with your loverly people.  Seriously, I would have you all at my side to face the Jabberwocky.

A New Sunrise

Hello my loverly cyberpartners.  I have decided to shed that generic design and import a photograph I shot myself over the waters of the Pacific Ocean.  It was the day I was flying home to Alaska from Ibiza, Spain.  I saw three sunrises in one day, and this one was the most breathtaking.

I'm honestly at a bit of a conundrum at the thought of reviving the 'Daily Photo' section.  I halted the production of such posts because I felt I was ready to include more in-depth content, and there were several readers who were turned off at the thought of a new post every day.

However, I heard through the internet grapevine in the support of that section.  (Specifically Erin.  Go read her blog after this if you're not already a follower.  She is hilarious.)  I'm frankly at a loss...to daily photo or not to daily photo?  Maybe once a week like a photo day?  Monday, Wednesday, and Friday??

That's where you step in.  Yes you, lurker.  I can see you reading because Raptor Jesus and Google hooked me up and now I can watch your actions from the safety of my own home.  What would you like to see done about the daily photo?  I would like the photos to be included because I have many to share, but I do not want this blog to turn into just a photograph essay (else I would create a separate blog for that, which c'mon, don't you like hearing about my awkwardness?).

The choice is yours.  Who will take the Ring into Mordor?

(wait...inappropriate timing?)

Believe

I'm not going to state much on today's ninth anniversary of an event that will be in America's consciousness for a great while to come, but it's something that I remember every time I take my shoes off to progress through airport security.

It's something I remember when all the flights were grounded and how silent the air was over my house.

It's something I remember when I see a photograph of people flinging themselves out a burning building to fall a hundred stories to certain death rather than be burned alive or crushed in the rubble.

It's something I remember that caused my parents to be stranded in the middle of nowhere on a hunting trip because their September 12th appointed Otter flight was grounded for three days.

It's something good to remember and honor, but we need to believe that everything will be alright.

Be strong, believe.

Ugly Swan

The fable of the ugly duckling is fairly well known.  I believe it starts something like a duckling hatches and he's butt fugly, with all his siblings poking fun at his less desirable looks, then grows up to be the most beautiful swan, yadda etc, until someone shoots him and dresses him as Christmas dinner.  At least, that's how it formulated in my head.

I'm pretty sure I'm the Benjamin Button of the ugly duckling story.  That is to say, I was a pretty cute kid.  Then puberty hit (everyone goes through that awkward phase) and I never quite recovered.  Random people scold me, oh you're fine, it's all in your head, you're just as sexy.  I think these people did not have to wake up in the Swift Family Universe of radiant smiles and perfect faces.

Granted, my parents are gorgeous themselves.  It follows that their offspring should be attractive.  And for the most part, the super-genes did their prescribed duty and produced seven Spanish-Italian Stepford descendents.  Some inherited the light eyes or the tow-hair of our Lombardy ancestors from northern Italy.  Others were blessed with the olive Mediterranean tint reminiscent of our Moorish influences.

The two who started it all, Raymundo and Belladonna.  Don't they look great for thirty years of marriage?

I however, ended up with the square Eskimo face, stocky Spanish body, and swarthy Italian hair.  Plus the Japanese love of indoor flip-flops and rice.

Notice the swollen cheeks, squinty eyes and unruly hair follicles.

Here is Joelyanna and Isabella, my two older sisters.  They have modeled print ads for many designers, and Versace designed those dresses himself.  I have never met Versace.  Versace would look at me as either the boy who brings him his self-tanning lotion or a piece of gum he accidentally stepped in.

My oldest brother, Titus.  Blue-green eyes with dark hair.  The bastard can charm the pants off of any lady.

Titus is also the Bruce Banner of our family.  Can benchpress your house.

Victoria is Rillian's mother.  Absolutely stunning.  Words fail to describe her infectious laugh and scathing demeanour.  I believe she is three months pregnant in this photo.  Pregnant women, despair.

Aragon also inherited blue-green eyes like Titus.  His dark hair does a perfect curl when it's longer, not the crazy wave mine does.  He also locked down his beautiful wife, Beatrix, fairly quickly.  I think they will procreate a new superhuman race.

Mariachristina has liquid black eyes and straight Japanese hair, and tans within ten minutes of sunlight exposure.  She was super popular in high school, winning Homecoming Courts and State Track meets alike.  Men and women are constantly performing double-takes when she passes by.

Jacobus was the surprise and baby of the family.  His light brown hair and crooked smile already drive girls wild at school.  I field constant phone calls to the house line for him.  Way to boost my ego, taking phone calls for a brother fourteen years my junior.

I could say that I am the smart one, that I have read more books than the seven combined, that I have set foot in more countries than they have, but what does it matter?  I'm the one pushed to the back of photography pictures, the one forgotten at the house in the flurry of packing and leaving à la Home Alone style, always a groomsman but never a groom.  I've gotten used to the "you're Isabella / Joelyanna / Titus / Victoria / Aragon / Mariachristina / Jacobus' brother?....really?  Are you sure?"

Maybe something happened wrong the night of my conception.  Perhaps there was a gamma ray that accidentally phased through the egg that was to become Orion and altered it a little bit.  Or maybe the stars were in the wrong alignment during my birth.  Could have been that the doctor switched me with another child out there, who is now living his life not part of the gorgeous Swift family.

You know, Kenny De Ketele was born on the SAME DAY as me.  He is good-looking, this might be the mix-up.  He really is Orion Swift and I'm supposed to be with his Belgian family.  In Belgium.  I'm a pauper!

In the words of my mother, "...at least you're somewhat intelligent."

PS:  Here is my nephew Brodyn, thank heavens he has the Swift Genes.  Maybe their is hope for my children.  Probably not, but one can dream.

A Heartbeat at My Feet

I was so exhausted from the past few days that I slept for eleven hours last night.  Haven't done that since uni.  (Or maybe last month, dontjudgeme.)  Both my mother and nephew have been released from the hospital, so there have been many visitors to entertain and meals to cook.  I needed some time to myself to zone out with all the influx of stimuli, so I decided to pick up the dog waste and mow the dog lawn.

Yes, the dogs that live here have their own fenced-in area.  It's approximately 50 feet by 150 feet, adjacent to the backyard and near the chicken coop.  It can take anywhere from thirty minutes (quick cut) to two hours (not cut for six weeks) to mow.  As I was prepping the dog yard, I realized how cool a dog's life must be:

1. Humans pick up after you.
Whether it's your own excrement or that bloody tampon you've chewed up, you can't pick it up.  Dew claws for the win!  Sure, you may get yelled at, but you've probably torn something up because your owner pissed you off anyway.

2. You run around naked.
Your fur usually comes in a summer and winter coat, therefore no need to ever change!  Also, there are those annoying knit sweaters for colder climates if you're short haired.  If you're really unlucky, your owner likes to dress you up, but that is usually temporary.

3. Humping objects is usually acceptable.
Whether it be legs, tables, blankets, toys, other dogs, or air; this trait is usually hilarious.  There are almost 4,000 videos on a Google search.  Some humans might discourage this, but that's probably because they are prudes.  Plus, you can knock up that hottie dog down the street and not even have to pay child support.

4. People usually find you attractive.
Puppies seem to be the best object for exploding hearts everywhere into little tiny pieces.  Every human loves dogs.  If they don't, they're probably one of those 'cat people.'  Even the ugly dogs aren't left out!  The Animal Planet has a specific contest for this trait.

5. There is no discrimination.
Every notice how we dogs usually get along with each other despite breeds?  The human race could take a few notes.  Unless your owner has not socialized you with other dogs or beats you, you probably love and are curious about other animals.

6. You can relieve yourself pretty much anywhere.
In public, the backyard, absorbent pads, people's shirts, trees, the chair legs, carpet, tile, linoleum; it's all fair game.  Depends on how well you've been trained and whether or not someone catches you.

7. You are always happy to see your owner.
Wow!  They came back!  I thought they never would!  I haven't seen you since this morning!  And the ruse is sure appreciated by humans, those lovable fools.

8. Dogs can go everywhere.
Airline fees are usually only 150 USD, grocery stores are acceptable places for puppies.  Soldiers keep dogs they find as pets in the Middle East.  Those humans even make purses for dogs these days!

9. You can sleep half the day.
And no one gets on to you!  Every hour is a good hour for naptime.  Also, those running dreams are pretty entertaining for all.

10. Always have a job! 
Being the family pet is a full time appointment.  Making sure your owners are happy is all the pay you need.  Plus there are awesome dog occupations like service dogs, rescue dogs, security dogs, or mascot dogs.

Reasons why the dogs I live with are more spoiled: they don't eat regular dog kibble.  One has to heat water in a cup for a minute, mix a scoop of Cesar's Canine Cuisine to a cup of Purina Puppy Food with the water.  That is a lot of work for a meal twice a day.  I tried fooling them by adding a dollop of chicken broth and nixing the hot water and wet food, but no dice.  They licked around the dry kibble and sat there with a disgusted look on their collective faces, stomachs growling.

Yes, that's correct.  I could hear them being hungry with food sitting right in front of them. 

They also are groomed professionally once a month.  Twice a month, if my mother has anything to say about it.  Also, a loveseat in the great room is covered with blankets, because it's the dogs' couch.  At least they have been trained to not sit on the couch without covering.

Yes you three, you're probably more spoiled than I am.  And I'm so indulged my parents know my bank account number by heart.  Lucky dogs.

Fluvio-Glacial, Alaska

As 'summer' draws to a close for the northern hemisphere, I would just like to reflect on a period that drastically changed my life.  The direction is still a pale blue dot in the blackness of the universe, but I have faith that I'll be heading somewhere full of light and magic.

Summer is in quotations because the Alaskan one this year was pretty rainy and damp.  There were a few days of sunlight, but most of the time I was wishing I had booked holidays to spend it elsewhere.  However, summer light is dazzling.

Primrose, Kenai Lake, Alaska

 

Click photo to enlarge.

This photo was shot during Memorial Day, the typical start to summer.  At least, according to that dang social season my mother was attending each year.  Glacial lakes are the most picturesque in full sunlight. The glacial milk makes the turquoise color unreal as well as close to the freezing point.  Some mountains retain their snowcaps for most of the year, and spruce trees are evergreen.

Also, at the time of this photo, one of the ladies was five months pregnant.  She just surpassed thirty-six weeks yesterday, and is now preparing for the birth of her first daughter.  Funny how fast time flies.

Happy Labor Day weekend.  I hope it was enjoyable.  Now get to work.

And So Ends the Summer of Discontent

You know how you should be doing one thing and end up doing the complete opposite?  I'm finding this bootie is not staying on as often as it should be.  Also, I didn't wear it to my foray at the discount theatre to watch Twilight Saga: Eclipse.  Don't judge, my grandmère wanted to watch.  Even though she fell asleep forty-five minutes in.  Being a senior citizen rocks!

***

So I have spent a majority of the past two weeks in and out of the hospital.  I have alluded before that it wasn't all just my injured foot.  I was enjoying a nice lunch with my family as we shared stories of our summers together at my parents' house.

Everyone was laughing, talking, gesturing; then my mother was on the hardwood living room floor.

I was confused, like a stranger had slapped me in the face for no apparent reason.  There was no logical explanation for my mother to be moaning in extreme pain.  Brain could not compute.  Error, error.

My cell phone rang me out of my stupor.  Why did I pick such an inappropriate ringtone?  This really isn't the time and place for Don't Stop Believing.  Did someone already know about the horrific medical situation?

"Your sister is on her way to the hospital."  Oh, is she going to meet us there for our mother?  "No, something is wrong with the baby.  She's in a lot of pain."  Does she know her mother is currently writhing around on the ground?  "No, and I'm not going to tell her.  I suppose they'll both be admitted then."  How are you being so calm?  "Orion, tempus fugit."

Bingo.  Activate my polyglot background and a love of dead languages to keep me focused.  I rode in the back of the ambulance because I remember my mother's medical history like the back of my hand.  I recited her last blood pressure reading.  Looks like internal problems.  Well, duh, EMT.  She made that diagnosis herself not ten minutes before you arrived.

My mother is also an EMT.  She knew that she was bleeding internally, and it had gone on for awhile for her to be collapsing.  I hadn't informed her that her daughter was heading for the hospital, albeit for different reasons.

I remember streaks of color, bits of hushed conversation, blurs of white hospital coats and glints of stethoscopes.  In one room, surgeons were saving a life from death.  In another, two lives were being separated.  I was like a boomerang, flying from the hospital labor floor to the general surgery ward.

My mother's pelvic wall had collapsed and caused massive internal bleeding.  My nine-month pregnant sister started spotting and was diagnosed with placental abruption.  Someone had not done their penances or a snarky cosmic joke had taken place.  I was nauseated to the point where I began carrying around what would be called the Oh-Oh Bag.

I was struggling with the Why? and the How?  Why us?  How could this happen?  Then I thought of other families worldwide without proper medical care, families that are not as blessed as mine.  And it may sound selfish, but it gave me peace.

Luckily, twenty three hours and enough coffee to burn a hole through my diaphragm: I have both a recovering mother, an exhausted sister, and a new nephew that shares of one of my middle names.

Welcome to the world, Rillian Amedeo Perseus Felipe.

You are brightly greeted.

Hippocratic Orkos

I know one location where people have to be and every single person does not want to be there.  There are hacking coughs, snotty children running amok, and wheezing seniors.

Yes, the dreaded Emergency Waiting Room.  I suspect it is modeled after Purgatory.

As I have spent the past few weeks visiting recovering relatives and attending to my own health, I can't help but notice the SAME patrons are always in the ER ward:

Bored-With-It-All Check-In Technician (aka receptionist)
This person hates the job and rather be checking Facebook then signing you in.  Everything you ask is wrong, you don't know what you are doing, you are an infant and this person will very reluctantly change your soiled diaper.  Why don't you have your insurance card ready?  You don't have insurance, you say?  Watch this person take ten minutes to track down the 'appropriate paperwork.'  The cool plastic bracelets they provide are usually arranged on your wrist to catch the most hair possible in the adhesive side.  Those envelope openers are looking pretty inviting to this person's carotid artery right now.

Triage Terror
This worker is all about QUANTITY over QUALITY.  If it weren't for that pesky HIPAA law, there would be three to four sick patients in the triage room at once.  I personally can't stand how they stuff a thermometer in my mouth (without buying me dinner first), squeeze my arms to bits with an electronic sphygmomanometer, jamming a pulse oximeter on my index finger and then expect me to explain in minute detail why I am in this hellhole in the first place.  A few scribbled notes later, and I'm probably put down for a lobotomy.  Next!

Decrepit Senior
Seriously, imagine Fawkes the phoenix moments before his cyclic death in front of Harry Potter.  That's what this patient looks and acts like, ready to keel over at any second.  Their death rattle reverberates off every surface, and each ragged breath seems to be the last (it never is, NEVER).  Usually in a wheelchair, the expert levels have their own motorized ones.  I just want take the threadbare blanket draped over their knees and smother them until they stop squirming.  Population control, right?

Ghetto Mobile Girl
You know the one: whether she is country hick, Alaskan native, or straight up out of the projects. She can't stand being alone waiting to be seen for another blood sample (read: STD) or needs an exam to garter more 'pills' for her 'condition.' Therefore, doesn't turn her ringer off (LIKE A CONSIDERATE PERSON) and has the most annoying ring and message tones (I do not want to hear a tinny rendition of 'Blame It On the Alcohol' while I am waiting to be seen for an illness every thirty seconds, put that shit on vibrate). Has loud conversations with her 'baby' and threatens to shoot him if he ever forgets her racial background again. Plays guessing games and throws out sordid details of the bedroom life for everyone to hear. Also drops F*bombs for good effect. For the love of Raptor Jesus, leave your phone at home (not in a car, since you probably had to walk or take a cab here).


Frequent Flier
This one knows the right phrases to use and which hospital on the circuit hasn't been visited in awhile.  Their bag clinks with empties.  Yes, I'm talking pill poppers.  Seems to be a bit twitchy and eyes the exits, planning an escape route in case social services comes to call.  Jumps into your conversation when you explain various aches and pains, and has a vocabulary existing entirely of words ending in -adone, -ine, -anil, -amine, and -azine.

Black Plague Incubus
This one could either be a child or adult.  Somehow seems to spreading the Ebola virus and irritable bowel syndrome systematically.  Possibly leaking fluids from every orifice and don't know products like handkerchiefs or facial tissue exist.  They lean over you to grab a well-worn magazine (don't they know those mags are INFESTED with sick people germs?)(they probably don't care)(they probably put the germs there in the first place) or rub their runny noses on your pant legs.  The cough emanating from this soul is enough to shake dust from the air circulation vents, and the sneezes are like micro-hurricanes sweeping into your lungs.

Granola Mac Couple
He's wearing Tivas, she probably drives a Subaru made out of recycled plastic bags.  Smells strongly of patchouli.  They both have their iPhones out with one earbud in and are probably researching new causes to join on Facebook.  Neither looks up or even at each other.  Sighs loudly as their name isn't called to see the doctor, because there are wild animals in the zoo that need to be set free soon.

Perky P.A.
The one with all the power, can command the attention of the room.  A pin drop could be heard as soon as the P.A. walks into the area with an important looking clipboard.  So damn cheerful their optimism could probably summon unicorns.  Bated breath from every person, hoping their name is called.  The winner and name holder of the chart quickly bounds up, elated to escape the hell behind.  This person probably is Raptor Jesus.

***

I'm only joking about smothering senior citizens (OR AM I?) but spending two hours in a waiting room with your mother and your aunt is pretty amusing after awhile.  My foot had really been bothering my lately, to the point where I haven't ran in a week and a half.  It was noticeably swollen compared to the other ankle.  I also pinpointed that it started hurting over a month ago and decided that loading myself with Advil every four hours was just a band-aid solution for a bullet hole.

The Physician's assistant who saw me was mid-thirties guy who wanted the life history of my right foot.  I told him it was pretty much that same as the rest of my body, except for the brief sabbatical into drug use and subsequent NA meetings / rehab after appearing all over the tabloids as RIGHT SWIFT FOOT GONE WILD!  LEFT SWIFT 'GROWS BUNIONS OVER HEARTACHE'.  It felt awkward to have another dude basically massaging my foot, even though I wasn't paying this time and it actually hurt (that's what she said).

The PA ordered an X-ray, which was stellar.  They have this motorized table one lays on, which had an outline for the target scanning and looked like a huge whiteboard with a pillow.  The radiologist also wanted to know what had happened, so I saved myself the trouble and wrote down the link to Right Foot's leaked sex tape site.  (Side note: what is the deal with every hospital worker wanting to know what you are doing there, morbid curiosity?)  He told me to take off my zip hoodie, remove my flip flops, and make myself comfortable.  It was like I was at a strip club!

Best part of the X-ray?  I expected to use the heavy lead vests one is usually provided.  Not so with this one.  He plopped a flat rectangle shaped covering over my crotch.  That's what I'm talkin' about!  Save the meat and potatoes from radiation, who gives a crap about your internal organs?

Long story short, there are no fractures but I have torn some medial ligaments.  By trying to power through and ignoring my foot injury by running two or more miles every day, I actually ended up hurting myself worse.  Ligaments never heal the same again, due the low blood flow.  He told me I had to be on bedrest for three to four weeks.  WEEKS!  Fatville, here I come.  On the upside, I was prescribed some luxurious lifesavers that rhyme with dir-co-set and I have this new sexy foot adornment.





I am gonna get so much tail with this new apparatus.