Monthly Archives of: June 2011

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‘Wait, what?’ sums all of this up.

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Guys, if I might advise? Get yourselves a nurse flatmate. Not only is there fun with sharp objects

[Sequence of events:
Nurse flatmate: Can I practise cannulating you?
Me: SURE! [long pause] Wait, what?
Nurse flatmate: Can I practise sticking needles in your veins?
Me: SURE!]

–but this happens:

Me: Ahh, I have a headache!
Nurse flatmate: Step into my office.
*THUNK*

The *thunk* is a giant box of magical, hospital-grade drugs landing on the floor at my feet. “Here,” she says, “try this. And maybe take some of these. Eyeballs hurt? Lost a limb? Concerned about your kidney function?”

Okay, that’s an exaggeration — she didn’t ask about my kidney function. But she DID just cure a headache that’s lasted almost a week in seconds. (To be fair, I could have cured it days ago, since she gave me the drugs on Friday. But she told me I wasn’t allowed to take them with alcohol, so hard choices had to be made.)

—–

A workmate came over to my desk. “Can you look up what season of Supernatural had the episode with the Scarecrow?”

Me: “Season 1. It’s episode 11.”

Her (backing up): You scare me.

I REMEMBER THINGS, you guys! It’s not my FAULT! I probably also know your birthday and your phone number and the title of every episode of Buffy. I know your Twitter handle and your email address and how to spell your name correctly, and the fact that it’s taken me three days to remember what Crank was called has been driving me NUTS. I’ve pretty much been obsessing about it, while also refusing to look it up, because I don’t FORGET STUFF. Not details, anyway.

I can forget whole conversations, months of my life, appointments. Numbers? Names? That shit sticks.

—–

You know how some people have lucky underwear? I will sometimes become convinced that a pair of my knickers are lucky, but I am never sure WHICH pair. So I’ll waste 20 minutes sifting through my drawer, asking my gut to tell me what FEELS RIGHT. I find it VERY STRESSFUL. My gut is kind of indecisive, and if I feel like I’ve picked wrong, it can throw out my entire day.

Or, like, yesterday on my run, I decided that where I crossed the road was going to MATTER TO THE UNIVERSE. Like, if I did it in the wrong place, then everything would go wrong, and the oceans would boil, and innocent children and dolphins would perish.

Should I stop talking?

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Zzzzzzzzzz. For serious.

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I moved last weekend. Wait, you might say, didn’t you just do that? To which I would reply: yes.

You may also recall, should you follow me on Twitter, that after moving all my stuff DOWN nine flights of stairs in November, I swore never to move again.

I should listen to myself.

The movers were 90 minutes late. It poured with rain. Not only did we have to move everything up nine flights of slippery stairs, but both Emily and I moved into houses that were three storeys high.

By the time we’d finished, my limbs had the strength and consistency of quivering noodles. I was so tired I broke my heater, my lamp and a box of glasses. My poor cat disappeared into my closet and wouldn’t come out (he still mostly won’t).

This time for real: I’m never moving again.

—–

This week has felt like a constant conspiracy to keep me from sleep. I’m so useless this morning that I forgot to finish my coffee. How does that even happen?

You know how I like to boast about how I never sleep? I’ve got shit to do instead of sleep! Sleep is a waste of time! I’m tougher than sleep!, et cet? Turns out, when I WANT to sleep and can’t, all bets are off.

I am a whiny, whingy baby right now. My new flatmates, bless their souls, like to watch movies at 2am on weeknights. Like, regularly. I can’t judge them for this because I totally get it: movies are AWESOME at 2am. Since I don’t hit peak productivity until after midnight anyway (one of many reasons the arbitrary “rules” of “work” don’t do anything for me (also offices, meetings, dress codes, authority…)), I’d be right in there amongst it if my job wasn’t kicking my ass so hard.

As it is, I’ve been more or less living alone for six months, and I’ve forgotten how to sleep through noise. All week I’ve been coming home intending that TODAY will be the day I have the energy for the gym, and all week I’ve ended up eating Peanut Butter Cups in bed instead.

(And yet, I lost weight this week. Peanut Butter Cup pajama diet? Or muscle atrophy?)

Last night, once I got done self-sabotaging (half a box of jellybeans and too many episodes of White Collar), I was prepared to SMASH a good night’s sleep. Flatmates were quiet. All was well. And then, at 5am this morning, my cat decided to emerge from the closet where he’s been living for a week.

And accost my sleeping head.

Then he upended his litter tray across the bathroom and spent a good half-hour noisily shredding a newspaper. It went on so long that I could have given up and gone to a morning class at the gym.

But I didn’t.

And now I’m very, very grumpy.

And I maybe need to move.