Concrete vs. My Leg

Warning: the pictures at the bottom of this post are a disgusting attempt to share my fascination with my wounds with YOU. How lucky you are. But seriously, if gross things make you unhappy, this is fair warning not to go all the way to the bottom of the post.

Last Tuesday I fell while walking to work and landed on my knee and the top of my foot. Needless to say, it was not pleasant, but I thought: "it can't be so bad, I'll check my mail and then see if it still hurts." (the P.O. is in the same building as my job, so this is not some 8-mile treck, lest you think I'm tougher/dumber than I am) Well, when I left the postoffice with blood dripping into my shoe, and someone looked at me with the great concern you show someone who has just betrayed the fact that they're psychopathic... I went to the nurse.

Turns out I hurt myself pretty badly and have been ritualistically bathing myself in Neosporin everyday.

Now, here's the part where some clarification might be necessary. I lived my life relatively accident-free. I was bitten by a dog and lost a pint of blood in 1995 and I got out of PE for six months because of it, but I also lied to my gym teacher about how serious it was(n't).

This wound is out of my realm of experience. It's not that bad, but I'll be damned if I don't feel like it's some kind of trophy. This is why I felt it absolutely appropriate to commemorate the event with photographic evidence. I'm telling you, the photos don't do it justice.

I have to take this opportunity to thank Tim from the deepest abysms of my gimped heart. (I'm not sure how many of those words were legitimate words.) He saved me a lot of pain and trouble and was very gracious about running errands and fetching things for me while I rolled around like a fat, broken goat. Had I carried on much longer, he surely would have put rat poison in my milkshakes. Actually, I don't think I got any milkshakes, but had I asked, it would have been my dying request, I'm sure.

Anyway, that's enough. I like wounds. They're scientific.

A woman's love is wasted...

...when she loves a Runnin' Gun...

This is so important, in fact, that I forgot to write about it because I was too busy being wholly greatful and thrilled. Most likely, you already know that for as long as I can remember, I've suffered from Migraine Disease. if you've never had migraines, you might not believe that it's truly a disease, to which I reply, migraines are more than a disease, they are the kind of curse that make you question whether or not it's really worth it to be alive. I read a quotation the other day which said something to the effect of: "People have often asked for death, but no one has ever asked for a migraine."

At the Richardson Library over Christmas break I read a book that was clearly written by a person who actually experienced migraines and used that experience to write about about a cure. It took me an hour to devour and memorize all 164 pages of that book and if I could sell myself as an indentured servant to this man, I totally would, well, to him and Dr. Ceriani, who wrote my perscription.

So, essentially, using a combination of B Vitamins, and a practiced application and understanding of my wicked headaches, I think I've gotten it pretty well knocked out. It's no TKO, but if you've ever been around me when I have a headache and I can't look at you, stand up, hear anything, receive and process information or stop crying... you know how important it is that I've learned to see a headache coming and stop it before it knocks me over.

I'm a much nicer person.

The only problem is that now I can't use my headaches as excuses for avoiding homework, cleaning, admitting that I'm wrong, etc... Not that I ever did that. Really.

I really can't explain how freeing it is to go three days without a headache. I would do anything to keep it that way.

The book I read is called Migraine: Winning the Fight of Your Life and it's $13.00 on Amazon. If you have Migraines, I recommend reading it, or any other book that might have the key to solving the mystery of your personal struggle with this evil and ridiculous thing.

Saturday night's alright for fightin'

Considering that I know nothing about music other than that I like it, generally, unless it blows, I have to comment that I think my friend Austin' band, Tuesday's Debut, from Lake Charles, LA, puts on a badass show. There's something boggling to my mind about talented musicians. Perhaps it's because my own attempts at learning the piano ended with a song with 12 beats about a train entering (or maybe it was leaving) a station.

Oh, and I once learned how to play one Jewel song and one Green Day song on the electric guitar.

Anyway, Austin's band was awesome (despite the venue's best efforts to suck) and I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone freak out and totally become part of a drum set before. It was basically awesome.

Austin freaked out and become the drums in the same way that I freaked out and became my homework this week. First week of school and I had a presentation worth 20% of my grade that basically consumed my life. C'est rien, I say... I'm glad it's over before The Conglomerate kicks in.

Here's the best part EVER: all of my teachers this semester are totally in their element, teaching their favorite classes, cracking jokes, drawing diagrams, using emphatic hand-motions and generally hamming it up, left and right. It's the dream semester. The one where you're finally in all of the classes you've been waiting to take for our entire college career. I could only be happier if I was in Botany or Tree House Construction 101: but those do not exist at Centenary which means that scientifically speaking, I'm as happy with my classes as any human could possibly hope to be. Gush.

Should anyone really be this please with learning about rhetoric? I take it as an indicator that I'm definitely in the right major.

If you want to be competely freaked out and fascinated for an hour or so, do a search on "BODIES: The Exhibition" or just click to go to the Bodyworlds website.

And if that's not really what you wanted to think about, everything in this catalogue either smells or tastes good: http://www.watkinsonline.com/default.cfm

Blond on Blond

I'm not sure if you can tell what's going on in this picture; it's buff guys with chainsaws carving up a huge, fallen tree. This is an allegory for what my stomach did today as I attempted to salvage the last scrap of my last Saturday of freedom, instead of vomiting (i.e.: being ripped apart from inside by my stomach with a chainsaw). Fie, I say.

While I was laying in bed I heard the most god-awful sound and recognized it immediately as a dog being hit by a car. Buster has been hit three times, so it's familiar. My neighbor hit her tiny dog and broke the dog's pelvis. While I wait for her to return the towel she borrowed from me, I hope they consider building a fence so that their other stupid dog doesn't get hit. God, that poor dog. I suppose I shouldn't complain about my stomach, at least my pelvis is intact (as far as I can tell).

Here's the real news for the day: (and I have no photographic proof, but Stevie does) last night we went to the Noble Savage and had a beer ten feet away from Jimmy Fallon (yes, THAT Jimmy Fallon), who told Sarah that she was cute and awesome and took a shot with Ryan Walsh, who has the power of ten men in his pinky finger. I resisted harrassing him, as my good deed for the day. He's enormous and his head is huge. WAY bigger than it looks on TV, so I don't believe that whole "the camera adds ten pounds" thing.

Tim comes home from Choir-Kidnapping tomorrow and then, TA-DA!! class starts. I hope this semester proves to be less terrifying than it looks. I have less books but more work, I'm sure. After this semester my grammar will be able to beat your grammar into a pulp. I shall challenge you to a battle of grammar and rhetorical skill!! Huzzah!

Rogers A-Hoy

Emily: "Can't you just drop it?"
Josh: "Never. I'm gonna ride this horse into space."

I never needed siblings. I had Rogers.
(P.S. My mother found a squishy kitten behind the barn.)

A, A, A, B, A

I got four A's and a B (in French), which essentially makes me happy because even though Dr. Kress is trying to kill because I didn't like France, I'm still in the running for Summa Cum Laude.

Also, this just proves that I am capable of more than I thought because in my mind, The Conglomerate(+)The Bookstore(+)Senior Sem(+)Reading Until My Face Imploded(-) Time to go A'TKEing= Suicide. Only for the meek, my friend. Only for the meek.

I'm reading Jarhead. Any good hippy you should read it. Ohh-rah.

Labor Omnia Vincit

So, the other day in the midst of absentmindedly searching the internet for something to *ahem* do with my life after I graduate, I remembered why I came to college in the first place. When I graduated from highschool I had noooooooooooooo idea what I wanted to do. At graduation I told the Principal to say "Roxie is going travel the world before attending culinary school," which as we all know is a lie, but it kept him from saying "Roxie is entering THE WORLD OF WORK" which they always say like they're announcing to the whole school that you have terminal cancer.

Anyway, I spent hours in high school reading the websites for Americorps and the Peace Corps (I also spent hours in chat rooms about japanese cartoons, but that's beside the point). Anyway the other day I remembered that the half the reason I went to college is that you can get a better job in the Peace Corps if you have a degree. The other half of the reason is that I looooove being around smart people. Seriously, nerds make me so happy.

I'm nervous now though because I've realized that if I want to do what *I* want to do in the Peace Corps, which would be digging holes, playing in the dirt, talking to plants and talking to people about plants, if I want to do that I have to have a) a degree in something botany or ag management or b) about three years experience in the park service.

Here's the problem: I'm graduating with a genius degree in English and French which means that they're going to place me in some former french colony teaching little kids to count in English, which would still be cool but it isn't ideal. (That is if the peace corps would take me.)

Can I go to grad school for dirt studies if I gruduated in Moby Dick studies? Someday I want my PhD in English, and I want to write, but you have to know about cool things if you want to write about cool things. Right, Jack London? Right? (Write?)

Oh yeah. And just when I was in the middle of a nearly six-month mix tape slump I got a whole package of mix tapes from my friend Alexis in San Fransisco. Talk about having crazy awesome friends: Alexis is one of those relaxed, ecclectic, wise, intellectual people who just totally grabs the attention of everyone around him. And he sent me about four hours worth of music, most of which he made himself. I have no idea what to send to him in return. All I have are paint-by-numbers.

I read a book about eggs today at the library where Tim used to work. Snails eat their own eggshells after they hatch. Turtles hatch by breaking out of their shells like sumo wrestlers. Baby owls look like aliens. Libraries are amazing.