Evenin' bitches.

So, after about 3 weeks of power healing, I finally decided to get off my orally challenged behind and blog about this wonderful experience which I am currently embroiled in. And while this has absolutely nothing to do with the goings on in the wonderful world of @ CN (I'm not sure if that's the right abbreviation we decided on using to avoid the the government's wiretaps, potential relations, and the jews) but still, like a fat kid at the good old cake buffet, it has consumed my life for the last 21 days and become the backbone of a summer rivaling a painful bowel movement in enjoyment.

Halfway through this ordeal I have gotten myself into I have come to realize that there is no upside to having your jaw wired shut. Absolutely none. It has to be the most inconvenient experience next to an inopportune boner right before you're called on to do long division at the board. The days are starting to drag on and blur together, and there's only so many times I can watch reruns of Full House before the magic of the Tanner family starts to wane. Although I do loves me some Bob Saget. At first, everything from eating to talking to sneezing had become exponentially more difficult. I mean, it still sucks, but I guess I've just gotten used to the trails by now. But before I jump ahead and talk about my life now, let's back the memory bus up and talk about the first few days, which, as you can tell by my Facebook picture, were the more interesting ones.

The last thing I remember before the surgery began was getting onto the operating table. Literally seconds after lying down, I was out. It came at me faster than I expected. The media has lied to me again and I was not, as I was led to believe, asked to count backwards from 10 only to be completely knocked out around 8, which sucks cuz I was kind of looking forward to that part. When the anesthesia wore off, I was confused and disoriented, kind of like Pinar after an @ night. I woke up after the 5 hour surgery, apparently asked for my teddy bear (well, wrote for it), told my parents my elbows hurt and then fell back asleep. I also remember everyone telling me I looked really hot, but I don't think that part actually happened. The next thing I clearly remember and can say for certain that it actually happened was me coughing up blood. Attractive, I know. Apprently the nasil gastric tube they gave me (read: big tube they shoved up my nose and down into my stomach) wasn't doing its job of making me not throw up, so they promptly removed it. But, it was shortly after this experience that I met my new best friend: the morphine pump. Press a little button, get a dose of morphine. It was like some awesome carnival game, except its not rigged, there are no creepy bearded ladies or incredible lizard men running around, and instead of winning some stupid stuffed animal, you get morphine, which is a much better prize. And man did I get myself pretty wired up on that stuff a few times. Don't judge me! It doesn't count as drug abuse if you get it from a doctor. Hereby note: all shady characters in back alleys and black people will be forever known as "doctors."

But my substance abuse problems aside, the first night was the worst, what with the vomiting and the restless sleep and the bleeding out my nose that wouldn't stop for about 2 hours. It's hard to describe my 3 days in hospital, partially because I don't remember much of it. I didn't do much but sleep and drool, which is coincidently what I did most of Fall semester. What I do remember, and quite distinctly, is my catheter. Believe me, if you never have to have one, you will remember it. Not so much it going in, cuz they do that while you're still under anesthesia. It's actually kind of disturbing that someone is messing around with your personals when you're unconcious. And how come when doctors do it it's acceptable but when I do it, it's called "date rape?" I guess a medical liscence gives you all kind of legal leeway. But when that tube comes out... and I thought things coming out of my johnson could only be a good thing. Oh no, that is not always the case, fellas. But I digress from my penile perils. After two days in the ICU and one day on the recovery ward, I was finally released home. And boy was I ready, because sleeping and drooling at home is so much more satisfying than in a hospital.

Since my triumphant return to my abode I have done little but map out an expertly crafted TV schedule including copious amouts of the world's most popular sport (note: America is no longer classified under the term "world"). They call it "football", but we call it "soccer." I like to call it "that sport whose popularity rivals only hockey." If you haven't been following the tournament, it breaks down something like this: Brazil = really good, America = not so good, and David Beckham still = gorgeous. I have actually taken to switching to Telemundo any time a goal is scored just to hear the Spanish exuberance of "Gol!" for the seven minutes following one. But, other than the pants rousing excitement of the World Cup, it's pretty much been the same story day in day out so far, coupled with the occasional excursion into the outside world to run a few errands with the Mummy. I'm hoping to spice it up a little on the downward slope of things. Just not sure how to do that yet given my limited resources. Maybe I'll be the pizza delivery guy next time... But no matter. I have mastered the art of eating all things blended, but I am yet to find an way of talking that doesn't have me sounding like a kid with downs who got beaten for spilling paint in the garage again (look, a retard and child abuse joke all in one). But if Kanye West can spit hot fire on the mic, I can certainly find a way to talk intelligibly.

Anyway, I'm bored of this now, and there's some really good porn out there just begging to be watched. I hope you have caught a small glimpse into the edge-of-your-seat excitement and thirlls that my life has been for the past few weeks. Fascinating, I know. But hey, when life gives you a lemon, you take that lemon and hurl it right back at life because what the fuck am I going to do with a lemon? Give me something I can use, damnit! No one buys lemonade anymore you stupid fuck! This isn't 1953. You can't just go around selling lemonade out of a stupid little stand with the "e" painted backwards cuz your a stupid little kid who doesn't even know how to write but that makes me feel bad for you and give you my hard earned quarters for a glass of shitty lemonade that somebody probably spit in cuz your working conditions are so horrendously unsanitary. I mean, you're selling lemonade on the side of the road! That can't possibly be healthy. Not to mention you probably have some dirty illegal Mexican immigrant working in the back, sending money home to his wife and 9 kids, all the while taking a good old American job from poor Joe McPatriot over here, who gave his legs fighting those Red Commie bastards in 'Nam and can't event get into the welfare office to get his disability check because they don't have wheelchair access because the government, whose squandered all the public works funds tapping my phones and seeing what books I checked out of the library while Osama Bin Laden is hiding in some cave in Afghanistan or Pakistan or Mexistan or just some guy named Stan laughing his ass off, doesn't have enough money to pay for ramp. So thank you life, for ruining the American economy, shitting on our Patriots, defenders of freedom and justice around the world, and making so many of them damn Chinese.

Love, peace and soul.

if the glove don't fit...