Tell Me, How Do I Feel?
I finally got a clinic appointment yesterday. Rome got ahold of someone with a brain who said, "They told you what? That's ridiculous." Thus, today I drove into Cleveland for my stim test. I'll hear about the results once the lab has processed them and Rome has seen them. It was actually a rather interesting Clinic Day. I finally got out of bed at 12:30 (I'd been woken up earlier, but that didn't stick). I realized I had only $2 to my name, and that parking costs $3 with a voucher, and $5 without. I can never predict when they will give me a voucher and when they won't. I had a 2:30 appointment, so I ran around frantically collecting coins, and scrounged together an additional $0.90. I didn't have enough time to shower or anything, so I threw on a sarong and a pair of shorts and went out the door. On my way to the Clinic (around 1:00) I stopped first at the library, then at Infinite Monkey to borrow $3 from Erin. She lent it to me from Superman, and I promised to pay her back once I had parental reimbursement. Note that this brings my net worth up to $5.90.
I sped my way to the Clinic, because I'm compulsively early to everything, and got there at about 2:00. Having nothing to do, I went up to the 12th floor and signed in, at which point I was told I was not on the nurse-visit list. Fortunately, the receptionist I had was not a complete retard, and went to talk to the nurses, at which point they took me back and gave me the injection without a fuss (in fact, they even did it early since the nurse wasn't busy. I was injected at 2:20). It was actually a painful injection, and burned for a couple minutes after I got it. I was instructed to wait 60 minutes, then have them draw my blood on the first floor. I was given a parking voucher, which freed up $2.90 for me to get lunch in the downstairs cafe thing. So far I'd only had a sugar-free fudgecicle (40 cals, 1 g fat) that day, so I thought it was time I have a $2.90 feast.
I get to the Au Bon Pain (this name has never made sense to me), and looked for the biggest beverage that cost less than two dollars, and some food I could afford. I ended up picking out a giant-ass diet Sierra Mist for $1.89, and took it to the cashier. Next to her were some chips, and I asked how much they were. "$0.99," she told me. "Awesome," I thought, and put them in front of the register with my drink.
Now, it was either because of the soda (which is taxable. How can you tax something with 0 calories? That doesn't make sense to me, for some reason) or the sitting-down that she rang me up and demanded "$3.03." Either way, my stomach sunk, and I turned red. I put the chips back and told her it would just be the drink then. She told me she had to get her supervisor over to delete the chips out of the computer. "...fuck" I thought. I started digging through my purse for an additional $0.13, when a 50ish smiling lady in a bright pink suit, who'd been standing next to the cashier chatting with her laid down a 20. "I'll pay for the chips," she said. "Actually, I'll just pay for all of it."
To borrow a phrase used so aptly by Veen, for that moment, this woman was The God-Damned Batman in a bright pink suit. "Are you sure?" I stammered. She grinned, "Yes." I thanked her, wide eyes, and took back the chips from the rack. She complemented my makeshift sarong dress/shirt. "I really like that, what is it?" "Oh, just a sarong." She looked amazed at the foreign object. "Big rectangle of cloth tied funny," I clarified, shrugging. She grinned again, and I smiled back. It was awkward, because I'm awkward, but I felt that I owed this woman a conversation, should she want one. Also, she was really nice. I wanted her to be my aunt or my grandmother or something like that. "I want you to have a good weekend," she told me. "Thank you," I said, "and I hope you have a good weekend too," and that was all.
After sitting and reading for 50 minutes (I'm still slacking on The Illiad, dammit), I went and signed in for my blood work. The stabbing lady I had was obviously new at the job, and had a superior stabber observing her. She did fine, though. She was a bit slow juggling the vials (they took 5 of them), but she hit the vein on the first try, so I had no complaints. I asked if she was knew, and she said she used to do this, but hadn't for years. I told her that I'd had many bad needle jockeys in my life (that fucker in the Laurelwood ER... I was ready to punch him with my free arm), and she was not one of them. She smiled and seemed to appreciate that.
After that I was on my way. I'd been in a rush and forgotten my iPod, so I put on Random Rock Station, and found that all the songs sounded the same, and I could barely tell them apart. That depressed me. "Down In It" by Nine Inch Nails came on, which seemed out of place given that it's one of their early songs, and definitely more what I would consider industrial than rock (also, it's more what I would consider "decent" than "sucky," which is how you can tell Pretty Hate Machine apart from their other albums). They played another NIN tune a bit later (or perhaps on another rock station, I was switching between two of them) and it was dreadful. Didn't even sound like NIN. The DJ said it was new, and I was sad to find that Nine Inch Nails has become yet-another angsty rock band. I was never that big of a fan, but still. Definition sell-out. Also, The Beastie Boys make me lol.
I went home, ate three more fudgecicles because nothing else in the house looked appetizing. Went out to eat Mexican food. I had a chicken chimichanga and half a cheese burrito. I used to be able to eat both items, plus rice and beans, but now adays the chimichanga and half the burrito is enough to make me uncomfortably full. (I'm discounting the fudgecicles here because they're really insubstantial.)
I went to Infy Monkey and paid Erin back $2.90, then, to my horror, discovered an additional dime and nickel in the bottom of my purse with the lint and shredded bookmarks. I'm still a bit sad about that. Superman got his $3 back, though, and I have $0.05 to my name. I'm running a PTQ for Harbarger tomorrow, though, and he's really generous with comping his volunteers. He's a nice chap in general. Block constructed is super fast, and turnouts for Berlin PTQs have been low, so I'm not expecting an excruciating day. Sadly, this is a format where I would like a higher turnout, since it's very easy to handle from a judging standpoint.
I realize that I'm 18 now, and can become a TO. Depending on what the scene is like at Reed, I may become a Gateway TO and sanction weekly drafts or something of that ilk. It would be quite a bit of fun, I think. A pleasant contrast to judging Pro Tours.
I miss Vivian. She's very unassuming, but the more I learn about her, the more awesome I realize she is. I mean, if I messaged you the following message, what would you reply?
TERROR COUPLE KILL COLONEL
(IN HIS WEST GERMAN HOME)
THREE SHOTS FROM THREE FEET
DRAGGED HIMSELF TO THE PHONE
How can I not adore this girl?
It's things like that that make me rather sad that I'm moving to Portland. Granted, many amazing things await me in Portland, but Vivian isn't one of them, and that sucks.
LOLIDOLI COME
LOLIDOLI COME HOOOME
I guess that's all I've got for now, lovers.
We'll return to Nicki Brand and the Emotional Rescue Show in a moment.
This is C-RAM in Toronto, and we've got the weather.
I sped my way to the Clinic, because I'm compulsively early to everything, and got there at about 2:00. Having nothing to do, I went up to the 12th floor and signed in, at which point I was told I was not on the nurse-visit list. Fortunately, the receptionist I had was not a complete retard, and went to talk to the nurses, at which point they took me back and gave me the injection without a fuss (in fact, they even did it early since the nurse wasn't busy. I was injected at 2:20). It was actually a painful injection, and burned for a couple minutes after I got it. I was instructed to wait 60 minutes, then have them draw my blood on the first floor. I was given a parking voucher, which freed up $2.90 for me to get lunch in the downstairs cafe thing. So far I'd only had a sugar-free fudgecicle (40 cals, 1 g fat) that day, so I thought it was time I have a $2.90 feast.
I get to the Au Bon Pain (this name has never made sense to me), and looked for the biggest beverage that cost less than two dollars, and some food I could afford. I ended up picking out a giant-ass diet Sierra Mist for $1.89, and took it to the cashier. Next to her were some chips, and I asked how much they were. "$0.99," she told me. "Awesome," I thought, and put them in front of the register with my drink.
Now, it was either because of the soda (which is taxable. How can you tax something with 0 calories? That doesn't make sense to me, for some reason) or the sitting-down that she rang me up and demanded "$3.03." Either way, my stomach sunk, and I turned red. I put the chips back and told her it would just be the drink then. She told me she had to get her supervisor over to delete the chips out of the computer. "...fuck" I thought. I started digging through my purse for an additional $0.13, when a 50ish smiling lady in a bright pink suit, who'd been standing next to the cashier chatting with her laid down a 20. "I'll pay for the chips," she said. "Actually, I'll just pay for all of it."
To borrow a phrase used so aptly by Veen, for that moment, this woman was The God-Damned Batman in a bright pink suit. "Are you sure?" I stammered. She grinned, "Yes." I thanked her, wide eyes, and took back the chips from the rack. She complemented my makeshift sarong dress/shirt. "I really like that, what is it?" "Oh, just a sarong." She looked amazed at the foreign object. "Big rectangle of cloth tied funny," I clarified, shrugging. She grinned again, and I smiled back. It was awkward, because I'm awkward, but I felt that I owed this woman a conversation, should she want one. Also, she was really nice. I wanted her to be my aunt or my grandmother or something like that. "I want you to have a good weekend," she told me. "Thank you," I said, "and I hope you have a good weekend too," and that was all.
After sitting and reading for 50 minutes (I'm still slacking on The Illiad, dammit), I went and signed in for my blood work. The stabbing lady I had was obviously new at the job, and had a superior stabber observing her. She did fine, though. She was a bit slow juggling the vials (they took 5 of them), but she hit the vein on the first try, so I had no complaints. I asked if she was knew, and she said she used to do this, but hadn't for years. I told her that I'd had many bad needle jockeys in my life (that fucker in the Laurelwood ER... I was ready to punch him with my free arm), and she was not one of them. She smiled and seemed to appreciate that.
After that I was on my way. I'd been in a rush and forgotten my iPod, so I put on Random Rock Station, and found that all the songs sounded the same, and I could barely tell them apart. That depressed me. "Down In It" by Nine Inch Nails came on, which seemed out of place given that it's one of their early songs, and definitely more what I would consider industrial than rock (also, it's more what I would consider "decent" than "sucky," which is how you can tell Pretty Hate Machine apart from their other albums). They played another NIN tune a bit later (or perhaps on another rock station, I was switching between two of them) and it was dreadful. Didn't even sound like NIN. The DJ said it was new, and I was sad to find that Nine Inch Nails has become yet-another angsty rock band. I was never that big of a fan, but still. Definition sell-out. Also, The Beastie Boys make me lol.
I went home, ate three more fudgecicles because nothing else in the house looked appetizing. Went out to eat Mexican food. I had a chicken chimichanga and half a cheese burrito. I used to be able to eat both items, plus rice and beans, but now adays the chimichanga and half the burrito is enough to make me uncomfortably full. (I'm discounting the fudgecicles here because they're really insubstantial.)
I went to Infy Monkey and paid Erin back $2.90, then, to my horror, discovered an additional dime and nickel in the bottom of my purse with the lint and shredded bookmarks. I'm still a bit sad about that. Superman got his $3 back, though, and I have $0.05 to my name. I'm running a PTQ for Harbarger tomorrow, though, and he's really generous with comping his volunteers. He's a nice chap in general. Block constructed is super fast, and turnouts for Berlin PTQs have been low, so I'm not expecting an excruciating day. Sadly, this is a format where I would like a higher turnout, since it's very easy to handle from a judging standpoint.
I realize that I'm 18 now, and can become a TO. Depending on what the scene is like at Reed, I may become a Gateway TO and sanction weekly drafts or something of that ilk. It would be quite a bit of fun, I think. A pleasant contrast to judging Pro Tours.
I miss Vivian. She's very unassuming, but the more I learn about her, the more awesome I realize she is. I mean, if I messaged you the following message, what would you reply?
TERROR COUPLE KILL COLONEL
(IN HIS WEST GERMAN HOME)
THREE SHOTS FROM THREE FEET
DRAGGED HIMSELF TO THE PHONE
How can I not adore this girl?
It's things like that that make me rather sad that I'm moving to Portland. Granted, many amazing things await me in Portland, but Vivian isn't one of them, and that sucks.
LOLIDOLI COME
LOLIDOLI COME HOOOME
I guess that's all I've got for now, lovers.
We'll return to Nicki Brand and the Emotional Rescue Show in a moment.
This is C-RAM in Toronto, and we've got the weather.