Handfuls of Trouble Part 2 (AKA The Longest Post EVAR)

The scar on the back of my right hand has faded with time. At one point it was so prominent and dark, it garnered attention wherever I went. It’s easy to understand why; it’s two inches long and is straight over the bone that is connected to my ring finger. Nowadays people don’t notice it unless I point it out or they are spending a long time looking at my hands (and honestly that says more about them than anything else). Occasionally someone will ask me about it and I give them a shorter version of this story:

It was the summer before eighth grade. I was 14 and hanging out with my two best friends at the time, Hannah and Kristen. Kristen and I were spending the night at Hannah’s house that weekend and it was a glorious summer Friday, full of romping and fun.

We were driving back to the house; Hannah’s mom was driving, her grandmother was riding shotgun, Hannah was sitting behind her mom, I was sitting on the right and Kristen was sitting in the middle.

At some point we al got involved in a silly game that centered on trying to keep the back windows rolled down while Hannah’s mom tried to keep them all rolled up. There was laughter and horsing around as we would reach up front to turn the window child-lock off and Hannah’s mom would reach back to try to distract us from rolling the windows down.

(Honestly, looking back now the situation was kind of dangerous and silly for driving. I guess it’s a miracle more of us didn’t end up hurt.)

It happened when I was reaching forward to grab Hannah’s mom while she was reaching diagonally back to grab at me. Somehow her arm pinned my right hand down against Kristen’s leg. She moved her arm and my hand moved with a rolling motion and there was this NNNNGH feeling in my hand and OH MY GOD IT HURT SO MUCH.

It was such a fast and slight moment that I didn’t know what had happened. I held my hand to my chest and sort of curled up around it, shielding it from the rough housing that continued around me.

No one else noticed I had gotten hurt until we had firmly arrived back at Hannah’s house. I was crying softly and generally just trying not to make a big deal about it but Jeepers Crow it fucking hurt. I had never had anything hurt that bad before and I couldn’t figure out why.

We got inside and Hannah’s mom looked over my hand. It had already swelled up to nearly twice its size. She asked me if I could make a fist. I did and it huuuuuuurrrrrt like fiery daggers of death to move my ring finger. She was completely baffled by it. Something had obviously happened but it’s not like she had hit my hand with a hammer. Declaring it to be a pulled tendon, my hand got wrapped in an ace bandage and put under ice.

We left it that way all weekend.

My hand stayed swollen and hurt like a sonnova bitch anytime I tried to move my ring finger. There was an unfortunate moment when Hannah, Kristen and I went to the pool and were playing some sort of game that was like tag but less “tag” and more “grab.” Hannah was it and she grabbed me by my swollen and injured hand. I yelped and yank my hand away, tears springing in my eyes.

“Oh crap!” Hannah said when she realized what she had done, “Sorry! Sorry!”

When I got home on Sunday my mom honed in on my hand with suspicion. I told her what had happened and she seemed puzzled by the apparent lack of crazy action that would have caused such a serious injury. Also it turned out that she misunderstood my original story and thought the injury had happened that very day when it had happened on Friday.

So she told me that if on Monday morning my hand was still swollen we would go to the hospital. I got to endure one more night of trying to sleep with this jacked up hand (if I fell too deep asleep I would end up rolling onto it or moving it and waking up with a cry of pain) before getting to get some medical attention.

Sure as shit my hand was still swollen to over twice its size on Monday, so my mom loaded me up in the car and drove me to the hospital she worked at.

I told my story to the nurse (which made my mom realize she had misheard the date of the incident, causing her to apologize to me profusely) who said, “Well it certainly sounds like you broke your hand.”

I held my hand still on a board while they took the x-rays. It wasn’t even five minutes later when the chipper nurse came back in and said, “Yup! You broke it!” And sure enough, the bone underneath my ring finger (your fourth metacarpal for you medical geeks) was split in twain.

The nurse motioned at the break, “See this? You twist broke it. Most breaks are simple and flat.” She mimed with her hands a straight break; lifting them up as if she were holding something and then bringing both hands down.

“But this is a twist.” She held up her hands again and rolled one of them forward while moving it down. “It’s such a particular break that you really need to see a hand specialist about it. They might let it heal normally but it could require screws or a plate put in by surgery.”

I was so stoked. This whole thing struck me like some sort of bizarre adventure and I really thought it was the Coolest Thing Ever. I even called Hannah’s mom to tell her all about it.

“What?!” She shrieked upon finding out that she had inadvertently broken my hand.

“Yeah!” I said in a chipper tone of voice, “We have to take the x-rays to a specialist tomorrow and I might have to get surgery and everything!”

According to Hannah, her mom hung up the phone with me, went into her bedroom, laid down on her bed and started to sob inconsolably.

The next morning both of my parents and myself had to wake up bright and early so we could drive to the Big City (not actually that big but compared to everything around us, pretty huge) to see the specialists. I was still looking at the whole thing as a Grand Adventure and didn’t see any potential downsides to this outcome.

We gave my x-rays to the specialist and talked about my injury and what the nurse had said about the twist break. The woman made me make a fist with my right hand and I tried my best not to cry as I did so (seriously, unbearable pain). I looked over and saw my mom crying profusely.

That was the first moment I felt scared about this whole thing.

The specialist left us alone so they could look at my x-rays. When she came back in she had surprising news for us.

“You have a bone tumor,” she said as calmly as if I had asked for the time.

To say we were shocked would be an understatement. Anticipating our confusion the specialist put my x-ray (the very one taken by another member of the medical community! A professional!) onto one of those backlit whiteboards you always see on TV and pointed at the broken bone.

Huh. Now that we were looking at it again it did seem kind of… Bulgey. Actually, it was easily twice as wide as the other bones that were next to it. But unlike the other bones it didn’t have as much of a bright white look to it on the x-ray.

The specialist explained that the tumor was an enchondroma; a benign tumor that grows inside the bone, eating away at the marrow and the bone itself.

“See, if you look here the edges of your bone are as thin as a piece of paper right now. That’s why it broke so easily. You could have fallen, caught yourself on your hand and still broken this bone.”

Then came the question of treatment. It turned out that I would need surgery to drain the tumor but not until the bone had healed on its own. It was explained that they needed control when they drained the tumor to prevent stray bits of it escaping into my bloodstream to wreak havoc on my other bones.

I ended up getting my right hand cast, down my wrist, about halfway to my elbow with my middle finger and my ring finger cast together up to the second knuckle. The doctor explained that there was a good chance that my ring finger would “drift” a little forward since it was essentially untethered to the rest of my hand. She also explained that when they did get rid of the tumor they would have to scrape chunks of it off of the growth plate at the top of my finger which could cause that finger to “either grow slower or faster than the rest of your fingers.”

I got to spend the first six weeks of the new school year getting constantly asked if I had broken my wrist. Each time this happened I would reply as happily as I could, “Nope! Got a bone tumor!” And then I would scuttle off as quickly as I could so they couldn’t ask any follow up questions.

I had to do that whole showering with your limb encased in a plastic bag thing too. It was pretty freaking awful and the way my fingers were cast made it nearly impossible to write by hand. My school tried to compensate by giving me a little type pad thing to write assignments on but it was as archaic as a Speak & Spell. It had a small rectangular view screen that only showed the most recent 20 characters of text so it was impossible to look over what I had written before to make sure I hadn’t fucked up. It was honestly easier to just learn another way to hold my pencil and write it out that way.

But then the time finally came for my surgery. First I had to go and get the cast removed. Then x-rays to make sure the bone was fine and still full of tumor (spoiler alert: it was). Then I would have to come into surgery two days later; two days during which I had to be careful not to accidentally re-break my bone lest I be forced to endure another six weeks cast up.

(My mom was so paranoid that I was going to accidentally break my hand again that she actually made me sleep in the living room so she could keep an eye on me and make sure I didn’t roll onto my hand and shatter it or something.)

The morning of the surgery came and I felt hungry and scared. Hungry because I obviously hadn’t been allowed to eat or drink anything since midnight the night before and scared because… Well, it was surgery. I’d never broken a bone or had surgery before and now with one fell swoop I had had my first of both (I am a firm believer of killing two birds with one stone).

We got to the hospital and the staff let my mom come back with me to at least the changing room. I had to remove everything but my underwear and put on that humiliating open-back robe. The whole thing felt like a bad dream.

A nurse came back and looked at my right hand.

“It’s this bone, yes?” She asked me, pointing to the correct spot.

After I nodded my assent she pulled out a blue Sharpie and proceeded to write “THIS BONE” directly over it.

My faith in the doctor and the medical world in general took a strong nosedive in that moment.

Soon the time came for her to lead me back to the operating room (where my mom couldn’t follow). She was crying silently but trying to tell me I would be okay. I felt numb and cold as I padded barefoot down the hall, following the nurse, trying to remind myself that this was no big deal and that I Would Be Fine.

I had to lay down on a table and had my right hand placed on an extended arm rest angled away from my body. I shivered with cold and nerves until a nurse noticed and put a glorious heated blanket over me. Everything suddenly felt a lot less scary.

Because I have small, easily collapsible veins (my mother calmly explained to me that I have “crap veins” when she was looking at my arms one day) they ended up putting my IV in on the side of my left wrist. It stung horribly but I did the obedient thing and didn’t move until they taped it down.

“Good job!” One of the nurses said to me, “You’re the first person we’ve had today who didn’t struggle!”

I turned and watched the anesthesiologist administer my drugs into my IV line. He looked me in the eyes and said, “Okay, I’ve given you something to make you sleep through the operation. You’ll fall asleep before they start and you won’t wake up until long after they’re done.”

And that’s the last thing I remember until I woke up in my hospital bed, holding my covers up close to my face, having no memory of where I was or how I’d gotten there.

I silently panicked for a few seconds as I tried to look around at where I was (a fact made more difficult by the fact that I didn’t have my glasses). Finally I looked down and saw my right hand all wrapped up with an IV coming out of my left hand. I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding. I remembered where I was.

It wasn’t long before my parents were brought in and we all laughed happily together. Time flew as I was allowed to get dressed and leave with my parents to get an early lunch and go home. Not even a week later I went back in to get my stitches removed while the doctor tried to sling some scar reducing cream to make it invisible.

I staunchly refused and declared that I LOVED my scar and if anything, I wanted it to remain more visible for longer. She just looked at me as if I had started speaking gibberish and shook her head.

I didn’t learn until well after the fact that my bone had been filled with synthetic bone marrow. Even to this day it is about twice as thick as the other bones in my hand. My knuckle also did end up drifting a little bit and now my ring finger sits slightly off from where my other fingers sit.

I also learned that student surgeons had been in the room during my surgery. Apparently I got to be a learning experience for all of them, much like frogs were for other people during high school biology. It’s strange to think about myself lying unconscious, intubated, hand cut open, while my doctor explained to them all what they were seeing and how the surgery was supposed to go.

Just like I wanted, my scar was very visible and got lots of remarks the first few years I had it (the first time I went skiing after my surgery my whole hand turned light blue and my scar turned dark purple. My hand didn’t feel cold and it wasn’t frost bite so I have no idea what happened) but it wasn’t long before it started to fade.

It’s still here after all this time. A little physical reminder that even the most mundane of injuries may turn out to be something Completely Unexpected.

Handfuls of Trouble

Everyone has at least one body part that gives them trouble. Right? You’ve got your Great-Aunt Erma with her trick knee that predicts the weather, your second cousin twice removed Gershwin who dislocated his left hip three times and your Grandpa Bob whose left shoulder has never been right since that incident with the moose and the maple syrup. Everybody’s body is different but the one thing most of us have is a body part that gives us recurring problems and makes our life hell.

For me, it’s my hands.

Now fortunately the problems I get with my hands tend to be more few and far in between but the trade off for that seems to be that the problems I do get are huge pains in my ass. So I guess it balances out. In a really, really shitty way.

As a little kid I was always getting cuts on my fingers. It comes with being a clumsy, stupid child but my god I still have almost a dozen noticeable scars from all the various times I tried using scissors or a knife in a way I really shouldn’t and ended up gouging my own flesh.

Out of all the little scars I have, my two favorites (What? Everyone has a favorite scar on their body, right? It’s not just me, right?) are a big triangle shaped one on my left index finger and a nearly invisible one on my right pinky.

The index finger one came when I was trying to make a small, wooden ship. I had done the typical popsicle sticks to make a raft bit and was trying to make a mast. Now for whatever reason I felt that a regular popsicle stick was too wide to make a good mast and set about fixing this. By myself. With a steak knife. (See above about the “young and stupid.”)

I took the serrated steak knife carefully out of the kitchen and into my room. I was old enough to know that I wasn’t supposed to play with knives but not old enough to realize why the reason for that rule was totally just and valid.

I braced the popsicle stick in my left hand and used my right hand to cut down towards myself. Obviously serrated steak knives are built for pretty much anything but popsicle sticks but boy howdy was I surprised that this Wasn’t Working. Rather than rethink my “brilliant” plan I just applied more pressure. Cause sometimes the universe gives you a way out and you just ignore it and barrel straight on with your dumb ass decision anyways.

Maybe 0.2 seconds after applying more pressure the knife slipped and fell tip first into the second knuckle on my index finger, carving out a nice little chunk. I stared at the bloody piece of flesh for a few seconds before screwing up my face into a little wail and crying for my mom.

The pinky scar is perhaps a far more embarrassing story than the steak knife/popsicle stick one. If only because I was 14 when it happened and (of course) doing something way more stupid.

I was fucking around with my dad’s Big As Fuck Hunting Knife. I don’t remember why I had it but it was one of those knives built for dressing game in the wild that flipped open and in order to close it you had to push this little metal thing to the side so you could push the blade back down again.

I was done with the knife and wanted to put it back but I couldn’t get that stupid metal thing to slide over so I could fold the knife closed. I don’t know how I did it but I had gotten it as wedged over on the wrong side as one possibly could and it seemed to me to be incapable of moving.

This is where my brain hatched the absolute BRILLIANT idea of taking a crochet hook (oh yeah, you can see where this is going now, huh?) put the tip of it in the knife, between the metal latch and the side of the knife, and pressing it firmly down while trying to slide it down the length of the metal latch so it would push the latch down and make it be Unstuck.

(I tried to find pictures to maybe, help explain this better since it seems pretty confusing, even to me, AND I WAS THERE but it turns out that when you don’t know what the parts are called you can’t find pictures of them on Google! How about that? Just take a knife that flips open, open it, and look inside the hollow part left from the blade not being there anymore. If there’s a thin piece of metal that sprang up to fill that gap and keep the blade suspended then congratulations. You’ll know exactly what I’m talking about now.)

ANYWAY, I put the crochet hook in it, I applied pressure yet again only thing time while pushing my right hand towards the blade of the knife. See? I kind of learned my lesson! Instead of cutting towards myself I just hurtled my flesh towards the blade! That’s almost a step towards in the right direction! Almost!

Surprisingly my convoluted scheme worked and I got the stuck latch to collapse so I could close the knife. Unsurprisingly the inertia carried my hand past the knife’s blade in a high pressure WHOOSH and I sliced the top of my pinky knuckle open on the knife.

The good news is that the knife was so sharp I didn’t even feel it happen (really digging for the silver lining here, folks). When I gouged my knuckle with the steak knife it stung and burned and felt ABSOLUTELY AWFUL (which is such a shock right? I personally thought knives were supposed to tickle) but this was like nothing.

I knew something was up though because I could feel the blood welling up on my knuckle so I calmly went to show my mom (another running theme in the injuries in my life). The blood was so dark and concentrated that it didn’t look like blood. I went up to my mom and showed her my hand, as she looked at me in confusion and said, “What is that? Chocolate syrup?” I smiled and tilted my arm to make the big drop of blood run down my hand, revealing bright crimson.

My mom initially thought my pinky didn’t need stitches and tried to bandage it up herself (she’s an E.R. nurse so it’s not like she had no idea what she was doing). But a few hours later and the bleeding was still going and she changed her mind. Conveniently by the time this happened it was too late in the timeline of When You Get Hurt for me to actually get stitches so I got kind of screwed on that one.

Let me tell you though, it was really funny going to school the next day and periodically having people freak out and ask me if I was okay because my knuckle had opened up again and I hadn’t noticed so I had tons of blood all running down my arm and clothes and drying and getting tacky and in retrospect I probably just should have stayed home for a few days to give it a chance to heal.

The scar from this incident is surprisingly small and tends to get lost amongst the naturally occurring lines on my knuckle. Besides, it doesn’t hold a candle to this scar on the same hand:

If you're having trouble spotting it, look under my kick-ass puzzle ring

If you’re having trouble spotting it, look at the area of my hand under my kick-ass puzzle ring

But that’s a story for next time.

Lazy Lump and Lovin’ It

Ugggghhhh I didn’t feel like writing AT ALL this weekend. It was my first Real Weekend in god knows how long since most jobs from my past were Crappy Retail jobs that treated Friday like the week’s Monday in that I began to DREAD weekends for the rush of people they would bring.

As this was my first time having a full 9-5 style job Monday through Friday in AGES I decided to take full advantage of it and just loaf around all weekend like the lazy lump that I am (all the best words for sloth start with an “L”). This decision was perhaps, just the tiniest bit influence by the fact that…


Technically it’s not that physically demanding. I’m doing temp work for a company that gets hired by various states and counties to help set things up for voting during election time. Right now the county I live in has asked that They (obviously I don’t want to put the name of the company on here; especially since my husband just told me that there is a person who works for this company whose sole job is to look for things on the internet written about Them. That is way too intimidating for me, thanyouverymuch) go to the sites that get set up for voting and check the outlets.

As vague as that sounds we’re basically running all over, mostly in school gyms, hunting for outlets, finding what circuits they’re on and then measuring how many amps we can put on them by running heaters for ten minutes and seeing if they trip the breaker. IT’S SO MUCH FUN.

Which is to say that I have gone from being a Lazy Loaf to running around in un-air-conditioned gyms hauling space heaters and plugging doohickeys into outlets and following electricians around while looking for breaker panels.

The search for breaker panels can be anything from A Casual Jaunt to A Dangerous Quest. I have been up in attics, choking on dust. I have gone down long Scary hallways to boiler rooms that definitely live up to their names in the 103º heat. I have followed (with no flash light!) down dark, rickety stairs to basements that looked as if they concealed the dead body of the previous Horror Movie Heroine who failed in the last leg of her adventure.

I guess what I’m saying is that I have started having stress dreams about having to find a breaker panel and being incapable of doing so.*

By the time me and Matt get home we’re both falling apart at the seams and use what little energy we have left to squabble over who gets to take a shower first. Dinner is whatever takes the least amount of effort to prepare (assuming one or both of us doesn’t pass out before we can eat in which case, fuck it we just go to bed). I’ve been falling asleep quickly and sleeping like the dead until my alarm wakes me up (it always feels like I’ve juuuust closed my eyes when BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP).

Him and I have personally been to 15 schools so far and we have about 18 left to go. Hold me.

*Not a joke. This actually happened.

Of Roaches and Vermin

Guys, our house is under attack.

Or, more specifically it has been under attack for the last four months or so. These guys are relentless and cunning; they are masters of stealth and while we have superior strength they outnumber us by at least 25:1.

I am, of course, talking about cockroaches.

Seriously, it’s been scary. Fortunately as far as I’m aware, we don’t have any live ones in the house. We sprayed for bugs around the edge of the house and in all the windows and doorways so the most we find of them is their dead bodies from when they tried to cross the barrier but perished before they could reach any of the good stuff.

We have found roughly 150 corpses of these guys in the house since spring arrived and they’re almost always not more than two or three feet away from the outside walls (though sometimes we do get a few that make it deep inside the house before finally giving up the ghost).

I’m glad we’re only finding dead ones and not any living ones but it’s still unnerving to know that they’re out there… Waiting…. Lurking…. Hoping to get in…..

Back when it first started getting hot outside (I live in the South West so it starts getting hot around… Early March give or take) my roommate Red and I decided to go on a late night snack run. We got into his car, he turned on his headlights, backed out of the space….

And screamed in horror at the sight of a pile of cockroaches easily two inches deep and twelve inches across dissipated as the roaches panicked and scattered into the rocks in our front lawn.

We sprayed the border of the house the next day.

We were actually given a sort of metaphysical high five by the universe for being responsible instead of putting it off the night after we sprayed. It was raining heavily and our Other Roommate (who isn’t really someone I Know or Trust while Red, the roommate I’ve been mentioning, is a Very Good Friend) came home and looked absolutely horrified.

We asked him what was up and in a strangled voice he said, “Come and look at the front porch.”

So we all got up to look except for me because I am an untrusting motherfucker and I won’t go over to anything that seems horrifying or gross unless I have been told ahead of time what it is. THIS IS HOW YOU STAY ALIVE PEOPLE. After I heard Matt and Red squeal in disgust but otherwise sound alive, I got up and timidly went to investigate.


It was like some kind of combination of a horror movie and a Biblical story. Our house was the ark and my goodness if these roaches weren’t trying to do their best to guarantee their ticket out of this flood. But the funny thing was that as much as they were running and swarming and piling up on top of each other they couldn’t cross the bug barrier to get inside.

It was the best sort of affirmation to receive; a perfect visual that we hadn’t wasted our time spraying the edge of the house with enough chemicals to preserve a dead body. And of course now we receive more affirmation in the form of all the little corpses we find littered throughout the house.

Currently there is a small corner near the kitchen that has about six dead roaches in it. Red and I wondered at why all the cockroaches seemingly wandered into that corner before dying. I personally voted that as the cockroaches crossed the Chemical Barrier of Death they started to feel themselves dying and started looking around, hoping to find someone to help them. Seeing what looked like friends they started to crawl towards the corner while maybe calling out, “Hey! Hey can you help me? I think I’m dying! OH GOD.” Their cries of hope would turn into cries of fear as they got closer and realized that what they thought was just their friends lounging in a corner was actually a pile of dead corpses. They shriek inaudibly in terror as the chemicals do their bloodless job and snuff the cockroache’s life out.

Of course this lovely narrative was ruined by the mundane realization that occurred a few days later when I saw Matt notice another dead cockroach in the kitchen and carefully shuffled it into the corner with his foot. Because sweeping it up and throwing it away would have been too much effort, you guys.

The impetus for detailing this account happened in the most horrible ways of course. I was unloading the dishwasher yesterday and took a step forward to put up some plates when POP! I stepped on a dead cockroach with my bare foot and it popped like a firecracker from hell.

It was honestly the second worst thing I have ever experienced with a cockroach* and I hope they all drop dead.

*The worst thing I ever experienced with a cockroach happened years ago. I was living in a much shittier, more disgusting apartment and was getting ready for work. I opened a Monster, hopped in the shower, got dressed, and went to work, still drinking the Monster I had opened before getting in the shower. I was almost to work when I took the last giant gulp of Monster. And something solid hit my tongue. I instinctively spat the Monster out all over myself and was horrified to see an inch long dead cockroach on my jacket. It had been in the Monster the whole time!!!!! It had probably crawled in during my shower, fell in, drowned to death and I had been drinking Monster Cockroach Tea all that while. I DIED. I almost threw up right in my car and for the first six months I tried to tell that story I couldn’t do it without gagging. This is why I didn’t drink Monster for over five years and why if I am drinking something out of an opaque container and I leave it alone for any length of time I have to pour the drink into a clear glass or else I just chuck the whole thing. You only have to almost drink a cockroach once to pretty much ruin your whole life for forever.

In which I sound awful big for my britches (honestly this title dates me so much)

I think it’s kind of funny how this blog has turned out so far. There are fits and bursts of posts where I just had So Much To Say OMG. And then there are a few little lulls immediately afterwards as if my brain was like, “Eh, whatever. We posted three things yesterday, we don’t have to post anything today.”

I guess it’s harder because I don’t have any real deadlines or schedule for myself on here. I love writing and have tried to get myself to just sit down and WRITE many, many times. I tried reward and punishment systems, Strict goals and even Stricter deadlines with Dire Consequences if I Failed.

And I always would.

I finally realized that if I am super constraining and rigid and mean to myself about flubbing up then it just wears me down. It breaks me in a way where I find myself going, “Well fuck it! I already fucked this all up so let’s just give it up entirely. I’m sure someday I’ll do this for REAL. Someday. Not today.”

Since this is just an attempt to get myself to write more I have only one guideline for how I’m doing this:

1. Write when I feel like it (but try not to go too long without doing so)

Seems kinda wishy washy, doesn’t it? But the funny thing is, so far it’s working. The parenthetical added on there is something I came up with because if I ended the rule without it I would find myself going weeks without trying to write anything because, “Oh I just don’t feel like writing right now. I’d much rather stuff my face with these cookies that are right here.”*

*This of course is just code for, “I really love being lazy and doing nothing.”

It’s pretty funny to look at the little I’ve written so far because it’s already really clear to me what was written because I Wanted To Write It (and so I put lots of effort into it) and what was written because Oh Crap I Feel Like It’s Been Forever Since I’ve Written Anything. (See if you can guess which is which! HINT: It’s pretty obvious)

I’m trying not to be too hard on myself for the lazier of my posts though. You know why? They get me writing. They make my gears turn and my juices flowing and a third metaphor for thinking. No they’re not always good and there may be a point of time in the future where I will be mortally embarrassed by some of them, wishing I could disown them like someone abandoning a dorky friend in front of the cool kids.

But I am still happy I wrote them. I’m still happy I posted them. And while there is a voice in my head that’s laughing at me because I’m already talking like I’m someone who has been doing this for a long time instead of just someone who is at a little under three weeks, I’m just happy that I’m already noticing a marked difference in my writing.

This system is working for me and I couldn’t be more excited.

P.S. This would be extraordinarily funny if like, something horrible happened or I just got outrageously lazy and stopped posting altogether and this was my last post. Or maybe it would be funnier if all my posts turned into random nonsense that no one cared about except SOMEONE TOTALLY WOULD STILL READ IT CAUSE THIS IS THE INTERNET AND IT IS FULL OF PEOPLE INCLUDING PEOPLE WHO WOULD READ ALL MY RANDOM POSTS ABOUT WHATEVER SILLY THOUGHT IS FLOATING AROUND IN MY HEAD.

P.P.S. I’m sorry I’ve been getting so caps lock heavy. I just get so EXCITED YOU GUYS AND aack! There I go again, whoops!

Honestly, I’ll try harder tomorrow

Trying to think of a fun topic for today and all I can think about is the MONSTROUS zit I have in my right ear.

And I’m not misrepresenting this either. This thing is actually in my ear canal. Well, it’s right at the edge, nestled in juuuuuust out of reach and juuuuuust deep and big enough that it muffles everything I hear, making me morph into a cantankerous older woman every time I have to ask someone to repeat themselves but SPEAK UP YA WHIPPERSNAPPERS.

I’m nicknaming this thing Lump. Lump has been with me for close to two weeks now (spitting in the face of everyone who ever told me as a teenager to just leave my face alone! They’ll go away on their own! HA).

I actually lost all patience with Lump today and tried to attack him with anything that I even vaguely thought would work without injuring myself (a sort of catch 22 actually since anything that could fit in my ear around Lump was also not something anyone should EVER PUT IN YOUR EAR DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN LADY JUST LEAVE IT ALONE BEFORE YOU DEAFEN YOURSELF PERMANENTLY).

It was a colossal failure of course. Lump is here to stay and was quite annoyed at my attempt at a forced evacuation and has decided to retaliate with an awful throbbing. As I sit here typing this I can feel my own pulse echoing in my right ear. SUCH FUN.

At least I can use my headphones without upsetting Lump. I can’t even imagine using those little ear buds without howling in pain.

See this is just like with the poop socking. I’m trying to like, reconcile this post and shift topics to something that isn’t, you know, GIANT EAR ZIT FROM MARS and my brain is like, “C’mon buddy, time to face facts. This is seriously the most interesting thing going on in your life right now. Just give it up.”



I hate my brain when it’s right.


So it turns out that for close to a whole day we had a dead bird on the floor of out living room and NO ONE NOTICED.

In our defense, I should clarify that this was a really TINY bird. Like, unbelievably tiny, adorable ball of fluff oh my god I’m trying not to cry while thinking about it. Its body was maybe 1″x0.5″ at the MOST.

It also didn’t help that it was on the floor in front of an upholstered chair that has this dark brown upholstery cover stuff under it that has been shed and ruffled for ages now so we all just thought the tiny dead bird was actually just a piece of chair fluff. That none of us bothered to pick up or look at. For a full day.

As for where the dead bird came from and how it got into the house in the first place… Well I have a few theories.

This is far from the first dead bird to surreptitiously appear. This house has huge glass windows facing out towards the south that bring in great light. Also birds fly into them CONSTANTLY.

There was a brief two week period where we found close to ten dead birds in our yard (I say “close” to ten because it was technically nine and a half). (Ew.) I started wondering if it was a sign of a coming apocalypse or maybe just a personal vendetta message against me specifically because I LOVE BIRDS. Birds are awesome and adorable you guys. So much love.

Every time I found one of the dead birds in the yard I would have to back away from it quickly, gasping inaudibly and shaking like I had just seen a ghost. At which point either Matt or my roommate would have to clean it up for me.

Our giant murder windows aren’t the only things that could be killing birds though. My roommate has a dog named Shelby who is some combination of Jack Russell Terrier and Rat Terrier. She is small and delicate and loves to cuddle and is as close to a cat that a dog can be without actually being a cat.

She will also hunt and murder the shit out of any small animal she can find.

It’s probably because of her terrier lineage, but Shelby has been spotted chasing down and tackling pigeons out of the sky, wrapping her little jaws around them and shaking them lifeless. So it’s entirely possible that she killed the bird too.

I am leaning towards the windows though just because yesterday, around when Matt and I got home from work I heard a solid THWUNK from upstairs and told Matt, “I think a bird just hit the glass again.”

He sighed and looked around outside for all of two seconds before closing the door and declaring that I Must Be Hearing Things because he couldn’t see a bird out there anywhere. But this bird was microscopic! So I’m not ruling out the possibility that I was right all along and the bird sat dead in our yard for a few hours before being carried inside by the dog, probably to eat as a snack later.

Where it instead sat in our living room for roughly 18 hours.

I’m kind of curious about what kind of bird it was but I didn’t get a good look at it due to the behest of my roommate who insisted, “DON’T LOOK. YOU DON’T WANT TO SEE THIS.” And I believed him because he knows me so well and I was already on the verge of tears.

I kind of can’t wait to move out of this house next month (OH MY GOD I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING PACKED) because not only will we be paying less rent and having to live with less people that I don’t know well at all, BUT there will hopefully be 100% less dead birds in my day to day life.

A girl can dream, right?