When you have cooked a frozen pizza in the oven and you pull it out and begin to divide it up into slices, and the knife blade happens to land directly on one of those round, mine-like pepperoni's, do you try and cut through the pepperoni, or scoot it over a little bit and keep cutting on your original path?
When your downstairs neighbors are throwing a kegger (like right now) and you are trying to go to sleep (like right now), do you put in earplugs, go down stairs and tell them to be quiet, join them in their late night activities, or default to updating your obnoxiously self-preoccupied blog site?
When stray dogs, cute ones at that, approach you, do you pet them or avoid them?
Minesweeper or Solitaire?
What does RSVP stand for? Honestly.
Do you pronounce it envelope or on-velope?
Has anyone ever read "A Dream to Squish By" by Michel Alexus? And if so, how was it?
When your downstairs neighbors are throwing a kegger and you are trying to go to sleep do you throw groceries down at them from your second floor window, do you call the cops, do you walk outside naked, or do you meander through the crowd asking them if anyone has read "A Dream to Squish By" by Michel Alexus?
Would you ever remove belly button lint in public?
Is there any other toast or bread product named after a state besides Texas? Michigan Muffins?
In an apartment with two guys, one of them purchases a 24-roll package of toilet paper for the apartment. It was out of necessity. But what if they are planning on moving out in a few weeks and the bulk of the toilet paper remains. Does the one who purchased it take it with him? Do they divide it up? If so, who gets to keep the plastic, cellophane like wrapping it came in? Do they split it evenly? Does the one who bought it get to keep more?
Someone make them stop.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Friday, July 22, 2005
Poo Poo and Sex Sex
So I'm at a gas station, using the potty, you know, the old number 2. Not the number 1. Number 1 is wee wee. Just like how the number one starts with a "w" sound. Wwww-one. Wwwww-ee wee. But not that. Well, that's not entirely true. A little bit of 1. A little bit of 2. Thankfully no 3. Here's a way to remember this numeric code in case I reference these numbers again. 1 - wee wee (think of the w sound.) 2 - rhymes with poo (number 2 is poo). 3 - squish.
So I'm at a gas station, using the potty, you know, the old number 2 (see legend above). I take a gander (goose) at the stall wall. I read a few of the entries, you know, the correct phone number to dial in case I feel led to have a good time. There were some racial threats on there (I was in Mississippi). There was some dirt on some poor girl named Amelia. And a whole bulk of sexual profanity I will spare you of.
Which leads me to a question - In such a disgusting context, why is the first thing the graffiti (spelling?) artist usually thinks of is sex and the escapades thereof? Nasty, revolting, pee-drenched, half-flushed, mustard-stained-toilet-bowl, fecal-fuming bathrooms do not begin evoking desires to think of, much less document, my sexual fantasies and/or invitations. I just don't get it. It's like carving the words "Who wants some vinegar?" at an oil plant. Plain and simple. It just doesn't make sense.
On the subject of bathrooms, I happened to be in Atlanta this past week and found myself dining at The Varsity, which if you don't know, is a famous old, fast-food like diner joint. The place is huge and old, spread out with like 30 cash registers with each one being manned by a black woman shouting "what'll ya have?" This is a glorified fast food place. Burgers, hotdogs, cokes, shakes, bla bla bla. This is not the point of my entry.
The point is that I went into the bathroom, again with the need to effectually accomplish a number 2 (see legend above). There was only one problem though. The stalls had no doors. There were two walls, sure, but no door. Which, if you think about it, is really the most important part of the bathroom stall. The door. But there were none. And my little situation was not going away anytime soon. So there I find myself, sitting there with my pants around my ankles, out there and exposed for the perpetually revolving incomers to see. I might as well been sitting there in the middle of the room with no walls around me. I have never squeezed and wrenched so hard to speed up the process. Had I used the bathroom after my disgustingly, greasy, deep fried double cheeseburger with french fries, the whole thing would have taken about 4 seconds. But it would have been a much louder exodus.
I think I was in too big of a hurry because I didn't even take note of the nearby engraved sexual invitations and the relevant phone numbers to dial were I to be so inclined. Good thing I wrote down that number from the Mississippi gas station, were I to find myself interesting in needing a "good time."
So I'm at a gas station, using the potty, you know, the old number 2 (see legend above). I take a gander (goose) at the stall wall. I read a few of the entries, you know, the correct phone number to dial in case I feel led to have a good time. There were some racial threats on there (I was in Mississippi). There was some dirt on some poor girl named Amelia. And a whole bulk of sexual profanity I will spare you of.
Which leads me to a question - In such a disgusting context, why is the first thing the graffiti (spelling?) artist usually thinks of is sex and the escapades thereof? Nasty, revolting, pee-drenched, half-flushed, mustard-stained-toilet-bowl, fecal-fuming bathrooms do not begin evoking desires to think of, much less document, my sexual fantasies and/or invitations. I just don't get it. It's like carving the words "Who wants some vinegar?" at an oil plant. Plain and simple. It just doesn't make sense.
On the subject of bathrooms, I happened to be in Atlanta this past week and found myself dining at The Varsity, which if you don't know, is a famous old, fast-food like diner joint. The place is huge and old, spread out with like 30 cash registers with each one being manned by a black woman shouting "what'll ya have?" This is a glorified fast food place. Burgers, hotdogs, cokes, shakes, bla bla bla. This is not the point of my entry.
The point is that I went into the bathroom, again with the need to effectually accomplish a number 2 (see legend above). There was only one problem though. The stalls had no doors. There were two walls, sure, but no door. Which, if you think about it, is really the most important part of the bathroom stall. The door. But there were none. And my little situation was not going away anytime soon. So there I find myself, sitting there with my pants around my ankles, out there and exposed for the perpetually revolving incomers to see. I might as well been sitting there in the middle of the room with no walls around me. I have never squeezed and wrenched so hard to speed up the process. Had I used the bathroom after my disgustingly, greasy, deep fried double cheeseburger with french fries, the whole thing would have taken about 4 seconds. But it would have been a much louder exodus.
I think I was in too big of a hurry because I didn't even take note of the nearby engraved sexual invitations and the relevant phone numbers to dial were I to be so inclined. Good thing I wrote down that number from the Mississippi gas station, were I to find myself interesting in needing a "good time."
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Lies, The Homeless, and All Around Conviction
The other day I lied to a homeless man. And he caught me. He caught me lying. The story:
I live right on the edge of where Baton Rouge ghetto evolves into Baton Rouge hippieville (I know, what a corney name, but I could think of nothing else). I live in poverty. It is not uncommon to get asked by meandering homeless for change. Not uncommon = every day. At first I felt the pressure, I would fish around in my pockets and whatever I had I would give them. "God bless, man. Thank you so much. God bless." And I would feel pretty damn good about myself.
And then the next day they'd ask again. And I didn't quite feel like giving up my money. Especially when they are holding a nalgene bottle half-filled with dark liquid with a foamy head on it.
Side-story: I once walked out of a restaurant close to campus holding a to-go box of my leftover red beans and rice. A homeless man approached, rather staggered. "Hey, can I get some change for something to eat." And here I was holding something to eat. "I don't have any change, but here is something to eat."
"What is it?"
"Red beans and rice." I opened it to reveal the still-warm pile of food.
"Naw, I don't eat red beans and rice." He turned down the offer for free food. I thought beggars weren't supposed to be choosers. He went on to tell me a few other items that he doesn't eat like speghetti and creamed corn. I told him, "I guess you aren't that hungry then."
This raises a whole series of questions concerning the ethics of how to deal with the homeless when they are asking you for your money. Do you give it to them regardless? Is it your responsibility to know what they are going to do with the money? Should we not give it if we know we are contributing to unhealthy habits of theirs? Or is that not even an issue - as if we can hold out our money only if we are assured they are going to use it in the way that we want them to?
I have chosen not to give any more change to the homeless. And I stopped saying that I didn't have any when I knew that I did. I started saying, "I'm sorry, I can't help you."
But the other day, I didn't say that. I got into my car, which was parked out behind this coffee shop I frequent (the very coffee shop I am writing this from now). I got in, started it and was approached by a homeless man (wearing a gold necklace by the way). "Hey can I get some change?"
"Sorry, I don't have any."
Then he looked down at my console and saw the plastic cup that I have in there filled with change. Filled. He pointed at it with a sense of betrayal and questioned, "What's that then?"
I glanced down at it, shot a look back up to him and uttered out an apology and drove away as quickly as I could. And the conviction lingered with me for days. It still does. Because after all, here I am writing about it.
I think the best solution is to ask them for change before they can ask you. This turns the tables a bit. I'd like to see them squirm for an appropriate response for once. What would they say? Would they lie? You know they have change. Would they say they didn't? Would they say, "Sorry, I can't help you?" Would they simply laugh? Or would they actually give some of it up?
Maybe I could learn to live off of other people's pocket change. Heaven knows they do. And they still find extra money for gold necklaces, cigarettes, beer, magic markers (to write on their little cardboard signs), and food preferences. This doesn't seem too bad at all.
I live right on the edge of where Baton Rouge ghetto evolves into Baton Rouge hippieville (I know, what a corney name, but I could think of nothing else). I live in poverty. It is not uncommon to get asked by meandering homeless for change. Not uncommon = every day. At first I felt the pressure, I would fish around in my pockets and whatever I had I would give them. "God bless, man. Thank you so much. God bless." And I would feel pretty damn good about myself.
And then the next day they'd ask again. And I didn't quite feel like giving up my money. Especially when they are holding a nalgene bottle half-filled with dark liquid with a foamy head on it.
Side-story: I once walked out of a restaurant close to campus holding a to-go box of my leftover red beans and rice. A homeless man approached, rather staggered. "Hey, can I get some change for something to eat." And here I was holding something to eat. "I don't have any change, but here is something to eat."
"What is it?"
"Red beans and rice." I opened it to reveal the still-warm pile of food.
"Naw, I don't eat red beans and rice." He turned down the offer for free food. I thought beggars weren't supposed to be choosers. He went on to tell me a few other items that he doesn't eat like speghetti and creamed corn. I told him, "I guess you aren't that hungry then."
This raises a whole series of questions concerning the ethics of how to deal with the homeless when they are asking you for your money. Do you give it to them regardless? Is it your responsibility to know what they are going to do with the money? Should we not give it if we know we are contributing to unhealthy habits of theirs? Or is that not even an issue - as if we can hold out our money only if we are assured they are going to use it in the way that we want them to?
I have chosen not to give any more change to the homeless. And I stopped saying that I didn't have any when I knew that I did. I started saying, "I'm sorry, I can't help you."
But the other day, I didn't say that. I got into my car, which was parked out behind this coffee shop I frequent (the very coffee shop I am writing this from now). I got in, started it and was approached by a homeless man (wearing a gold necklace by the way). "Hey can I get some change?"
"Sorry, I don't have any."
Then he looked down at my console and saw the plastic cup that I have in there filled with change. Filled. He pointed at it with a sense of betrayal and questioned, "What's that then?"
I glanced down at it, shot a look back up to him and uttered out an apology and drove away as quickly as I could. And the conviction lingered with me for days. It still does. Because after all, here I am writing about it.
I think the best solution is to ask them for change before they can ask you. This turns the tables a bit. I'd like to see them squirm for an appropriate response for once. What would they say? Would they lie? You know they have change. Would they say they didn't? Would they say, "Sorry, I can't help you?" Would they simply laugh? Or would they actually give some of it up?
Maybe I could learn to live off of other people's pocket change. Heaven knows they do. And they still find extra money for gold necklaces, cigarettes, beer, magic markers (to write on their little cardboard signs), and food preferences. This doesn't seem too bad at all.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Real Reality
Everyone has heard the expression. You've no doubt used it yourself. You hear it come out in extreme circumstances or when you're watching something unbelievable on the news. It was used often to describe the images of the planes crashing into the Twin Towers. You might now know what I'm getting at. The expression is, "It looks just like the movies."
A few months back I had a student pick me up from the airport in New Orleans. On our way back to Baton Rouge I told him to be careful with his speed as I know cops like to lurk around curves. He slowed down and sure enough, as we rounded the corner, there sat a perched police officer. Thankful that I warned him and a bit baffled at my prediction, he used the expression. "Man, it was just like the movies."
Here is my problem with that expression. Media images have so saturated our culture and swallowed our perception of reality that we now appeal to them as the standard. Movies are more real to us than reality and so when we encounter something in our real experience, we compare it to what we know best - the movies. We know movies better than we do our own experience. We are more in tune with fantasy than we are with reality.
Does anyone else see the problem here? Movies are supposed to reflect reality, not replace it. When we see explosions on the big screen, we should say, "That looked just like 9-11." Not the other way around. When we see relationships either crumble or piece back together on film, we should note how that reminds us of our own experience. See, we have replaced our normal, every day encounters of life with the more exciting pseudo-reality of movies.
Real life is more exciting than the movies anyway. There is never going to be anything "ordinary" on the big screen. You'll never watch someone sleeping (well, unless you rent Andy Warhol's 8 hour long film entitled "Sleeping"). You'll never watch someone take the pebble out of their shoe. Or show the whole 30 minute long segment it takes to drive to work. Real life involves real people with real emotions and real experiences. It is simply a shame that we evaluate our experiences through the lens of fiction, and not reality.
This blog post was just like a novel.
A few months back I had a student pick me up from the airport in New Orleans. On our way back to Baton Rouge I told him to be careful with his speed as I know cops like to lurk around curves. He slowed down and sure enough, as we rounded the corner, there sat a perched police officer. Thankful that I warned him and a bit baffled at my prediction, he used the expression. "Man, it was just like the movies."
Here is my problem with that expression. Media images have so saturated our culture and swallowed our perception of reality that we now appeal to them as the standard. Movies are more real to us than reality and so when we encounter something in our real experience, we compare it to what we know best - the movies. We know movies better than we do our own experience. We are more in tune with fantasy than we are with reality.
Does anyone else see the problem here? Movies are supposed to reflect reality, not replace it. When we see explosions on the big screen, we should say, "That looked just like 9-11." Not the other way around. When we see relationships either crumble or piece back together on film, we should note how that reminds us of our own experience. See, we have replaced our normal, every day encounters of life with the more exciting pseudo-reality of movies.
Real life is more exciting than the movies anyway. There is never going to be anything "ordinary" on the big screen. You'll never watch someone sleeping (well, unless you rent Andy Warhol's 8 hour long film entitled "Sleeping"). You'll never watch someone take the pebble out of their shoe. Or show the whole 30 minute long segment it takes to drive to work. Real life involves real people with real emotions and real experiences. It is simply a shame that we evaluate our experiences through the lens of fiction, and not reality.
This blog post was just like a novel.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Existence is Expensive
Have you ever considered what it costs just to be alive? Ponder with me.
You have to eat. That means you have to buy food. They come in packages that must be discarded in a trashcan. So you have to buy a trashcan. And trash bags. And then you have to pay the city to come by and get it. But let's say you decide to toss your trash on the ground instead, you know, bypass the expenses of cans, bags, and city. Well, if you litter, and you get caught, you still have to give up some cheese.
And on the other end - you have to pay for the water in the toilet to carry away the leftovers.
What about hygiene? What must you buy just to be clean? Soap. Wash cloths. Comb. More water bills. If you are like me, then a loufa. Shampoo. Towels. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Floss. You could blow a budget in the hygiene arena alone.
So let's say you get a job. How are you going to get there? Well, you got to get a car. And then gas. And insurance. And oil changes. And inspections. You even have to pay for the roads that you drive on.
So you decide to go public transit instead. Well, bus' require tickets. Tickets require more money.
And after work you have to go home. Home. Those cost money too. If you are like me then you have rent and utilities. I don't pay housenotes yet. But housenotes are just adult code language for "more money." Not to mention repairs, light bulbs, brooms, dust pans, vacuums, dusters, cleaning supplies for the bathroom (I don't have any of these), and all the money it will take for you to fill it with furnature, kitchen gear, and pictures and frames for the walls.
Now, you can't walk around naked. You have to get at least a shirt and pants. But not just one pair of pants. You have to buy an extra pair of shorts and wear these UNDER the pants. Why we do this, I don't know. I think it is like Halmark holidays, they are made up just so that we can shell out more cash. Don't get me wrong, I wear underwear, I just don't know why I do.
Besides, every step you take ruffles the threads in your clothes, creating a nonstop wear and tear which will inevitably force you to buy more. Buying more = giving away more money.
We Americans like our entertainment. This usually doesn't come free. Movies. Video games. TV shows. Internet. Laptops. Board games. Musicals. Sporting events. Bars even make you give up a few bucks to play pool.
And on and on I could go. I could get into alcohol or cigarettes, whatever tickles your fancy. I could get into books or magazines. Or coffee. Or even paper. Believe it or not, I could go on and on, but I will spare us all. It is clear though - every thing you do costs money. Every breath you pull in can be calculated as an expense. Every step you take could be factored into your budget (especially if you are on the envelope system). But there are a few things I have discovered that come free. I will impart my knowledge on you at this time:
THINGS THAT ARE FREE
1. Staring. You can stare at anything really. Except the sun. And then this activity will cost you a great amount of money.
2. Eating trash. People go to Denny's. Don't finish their meal. Get up and leave. I'm talking free mashed potatos and left over chicken fingers. All for the cost of your pride.
3. Checking the time. This activity can be fun in high school. And as long as it isn't a watch or clock you bought, it is a free activity.
4. Drinking water from a water fountain at a public library. In a strange way, I feel that this does not come free. Somehow taxes are funding that water. I don't know about this one.
5. Any number of gerunds come free. Squeezing, pulling, begging, walking, rummaging, stalking, plundering, ripping, tearing, sliding, sitting, resting, climbing, panhandling, squeezing. The list is almost endless, except for the end of it. There is also squeezing.
6. Having a blog. Go to the public library with free internet access. Get you a blog. They're free and quite fun. You get to indulge yourself in your own thoughts and then sit and wait for attention and approval by way of "comments."
If anyone else can think of free activities and/or items of use, it would indeed be appreciated, as I am committing myself to a frugal life of frugality.
You have to eat. That means you have to buy food. They come in packages that must be discarded in a trashcan. So you have to buy a trashcan. And trash bags. And then you have to pay the city to come by and get it. But let's say you decide to toss your trash on the ground instead, you know, bypass the expenses of cans, bags, and city. Well, if you litter, and you get caught, you still have to give up some cheese.
And on the other end - you have to pay for the water in the toilet to carry away the leftovers.
What about hygiene? What must you buy just to be clean? Soap. Wash cloths. Comb. More water bills. If you are like me, then a loufa. Shampoo. Towels. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Floss. You could blow a budget in the hygiene arena alone.
So let's say you get a job. How are you going to get there? Well, you got to get a car. And then gas. And insurance. And oil changes. And inspections. You even have to pay for the roads that you drive on.
So you decide to go public transit instead. Well, bus' require tickets. Tickets require more money.
And after work you have to go home. Home. Those cost money too. If you are like me then you have rent and utilities. I don't pay housenotes yet. But housenotes are just adult code language for "more money." Not to mention repairs, light bulbs, brooms, dust pans, vacuums, dusters, cleaning supplies for the bathroom (I don't have any of these), and all the money it will take for you to fill it with furnature, kitchen gear, and pictures and frames for the walls.
Now, you can't walk around naked. You have to get at least a shirt and pants. But not just one pair of pants. You have to buy an extra pair of shorts and wear these UNDER the pants. Why we do this, I don't know. I think it is like Halmark holidays, they are made up just so that we can shell out more cash. Don't get me wrong, I wear underwear, I just don't know why I do.
Besides, every step you take ruffles the threads in your clothes, creating a nonstop wear and tear which will inevitably force you to buy more. Buying more = giving away more money.
We Americans like our entertainment. This usually doesn't come free. Movies. Video games. TV shows. Internet. Laptops. Board games. Musicals. Sporting events. Bars even make you give up a few bucks to play pool.
And on and on I could go. I could get into alcohol or cigarettes, whatever tickles your fancy. I could get into books or magazines. Or coffee. Or even paper. Believe it or not, I could go on and on, but I will spare us all. It is clear though - every thing you do costs money. Every breath you pull in can be calculated as an expense. Every step you take could be factored into your budget (especially if you are on the envelope system). But there are a few things I have discovered that come free. I will impart my knowledge on you at this time:
THINGS THAT ARE FREE
1. Staring. You can stare at anything really. Except the sun. And then this activity will cost you a great amount of money.
2. Eating trash. People go to Denny's. Don't finish their meal. Get up and leave. I'm talking free mashed potatos and left over chicken fingers. All for the cost of your pride.
3. Checking the time. This activity can be fun in high school. And as long as it isn't a watch or clock you bought, it is a free activity.
4. Drinking water from a water fountain at a public library. In a strange way, I feel that this does not come free. Somehow taxes are funding that water. I don't know about this one.
5. Any number of gerunds come free. Squeezing, pulling, begging, walking, rummaging, stalking, plundering, ripping, tearing, sliding, sitting, resting, climbing, panhandling, squeezing. The list is almost endless, except for the end of it. There is also squeezing.
6. Having a blog. Go to the public library with free internet access. Get you a blog. They're free and quite fun. You get to indulge yourself in your own thoughts and then sit and wait for attention and approval by way of "comments."
If anyone else can think of free activities and/or items of use, it would indeed be appreciated, as I am committing myself to a frugal life of frugality.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Poison Ivy Five: Independence Day
While the country celebrates our liberation from Britain, I celebrated the liberation of my poison ivy. Almost two weeks of sleep-interupting, skin-crawling, lotion-rubbing, pill-popping mania. And so today I will light my sparklers, I will eat my watermelon, I will enjoy my hamburger, because it is Independence Day - and I have been freed from the tyranny of poison ivy.
And as I celebrate (by myself) I wonder if the country even considers Britain as it enjoys its day of independence. Do we even care that we are no longer bound to Britain? I think we'd rather be under their rule, actually. They have influenced our pop culture more than we care to give them credit for. They do produce some fine foods (London Broil comes to mind). They even invented our language. We have much to thank them for. So why must we celebrate our departure?
I can't help but think that Britain is a bit resentful of this national holiday. If I were a Brit, I'd think that this day is one big middle finger directed at the UK. We take off work, we get an extra long weekend, we drink ourselves sick, we eat ourselves sicker, we watch fire works, we bathe in the glory of our freedom from Britain. They stand by across the ocean and overhear the laughter of our triumph. I would hate Independence Day, were I British.
A few interesting questions to ponder in light of our holiday:
What must we do with Romans 13 and the call to submit and obey our civil authorities?
What is the difference between fighting for our independence and all-out treason and rebellion?
Isn't freedom just a patriotically cloaked idol of our country? Freedom is autonomy, both of which don't exist. Furthermore, the ideas of freedom being disconnected from God and self-reliance are clearly revealed in Scripture as odiously sinful.
So what do we do if we consider Independece Day to be a glorified terrorist attack on the UK?
I have no clue. I'm not suggesting we stay inside while all the pagans celebrate. Heck, I'll be celebrating. And I'll be saying "heck" a great deal. But of course, my celebration will be for something much grander than our country's liberation from the Brits, it will be for the restoration of my skin.
Thus concludes the poison ivy saga. May that God-forsaken plant rot in hell forever.
And as I celebrate (by myself) I wonder if the country even considers Britain as it enjoys its day of independence. Do we even care that we are no longer bound to Britain? I think we'd rather be under their rule, actually. They have influenced our pop culture more than we care to give them credit for. They do produce some fine foods (London Broil comes to mind). They even invented our language. We have much to thank them for. So why must we celebrate our departure?
I can't help but think that Britain is a bit resentful of this national holiday. If I were a Brit, I'd think that this day is one big middle finger directed at the UK. We take off work, we get an extra long weekend, we drink ourselves sick, we eat ourselves sicker, we watch fire works, we bathe in the glory of our freedom from Britain. They stand by across the ocean and overhear the laughter of our triumph. I would hate Independence Day, were I British.
A few interesting questions to ponder in light of our holiday:
What must we do with Romans 13 and the call to submit and obey our civil authorities?
What is the difference between fighting for our independence and all-out treason and rebellion?
Isn't freedom just a patriotically cloaked idol of our country? Freedom is autonomy, both of which don't exist. Furthermore, the ideas of freedom being disconnected from God and self-reliance are clearly revealed in Scripture as odiously sinful.
So what do we do if we consider Independece Day to be a glorified terrorist attack on the UK?
I have no clue. I'm not suggesting we stay inside while all the pagans celebrate. Heck, I'll be celebrating. And I'll be saying "heck" a great deal. But of course, my celebration will be for something much grander than our country's liberation from the Brits, it will be for the restoration of my skin.
Thus concludes the poison ivy saga. May that God-forsaken plant rot in hell forever.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Poison Ivy Four: Annoyance
Day 9. My entire body looks like this guy's arms. And how I wish I looked this like guy.
The worst thing about poison ivy is that it impairs sleep. Last night I was up till 3:30 scratching. I eventually poured myself a glass of bourbon (not joking) in hopes that my senses would dull long enough for me to go to sleep. This monster is unbearably miserable.
I was outside the other day talking with some students. We were lounging around on some lawn chairs that sit outside of my house on this little patio looking thing. Keep in mind that I'm covered in reddish, itchy bubbles.
Here is my question - What happens to mosquitos when bite poison ivy victims? They are sticking their little needle-like mouths directly into poison-filled puss bubbles. They are swallowing the poison ivy oil. Does this mean they get it? Do their tiny throats get encrusted with itchy bumps? Or do they get it on their outer body? Their wings? Their legs? Or are they immune to it?
While we were outside talking we saw a slug making his way from one side of the patio to the other. This is simply a sidenote but what a terrible and unfortunate insect. It has no protection. At least a snail can scurry up into its shell. A slug has nothing. It is just out there and exposed for all. It moves about as slow as my mother drives and it has no means for protection. No exoskeleton. No claws or teeth. Nothing. It is worthless and completely unable to protect itself. Even salt kills it. Salt. If salt kills it, it stands no chance in the food chain. These are my thoughts on slugs. Back to the lecture at hand (perfection is perfected so I'm a let 'em understand, from a young g's perspective).
Poison Ivy is diabolical enough to have a Batman villian named after it.
Poison Ivy is hazardous enough to have "poison" in its title.
Poison Ivy is kind enough to not discriminate. It will poison anything and any body.
Poison Ivy is dominating and ruining my life as we speak (or type (or read)).
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