Feuding II

Dear Body,

What the hell?  It's our one day off.  We get to sleep in.  Do you know what that means?  We do not have any reason to be awake.  Like none, no responsibilities.  Whatsoever.  I'm not even functioning at the capacity of a hand puppet.  So what are you doing?

There is no reason for this.  We didn't even get in till almost dawn, it doesn't make sense.  Even less when you consider the gratuitous amount of alcohol involved.  In case you need a refresher, for normal bodies: more of that usually equates to more time unconscious, not less.  Making zombie-face at the wall is not what needs to be happening right now.

I will fight you to the death,
Brain

Feuding I

Dear Brain,

Seriously.  It's 4:14 AM, we're exhausted.  We're in bed, ready to shut down, why won't you just stop?  No, I get it.  You're important to this operation, but really, who the hell needs to have thoughts about nothing jerking them into wakefulness when they're falling asleep?  This is the opposite of our goal.  It's not even relevant to anything going on.  At all.  Ever.  

What the hell is wrong with you?  Do you know how hard it is to even get this far in the sleeping process; how much we've been looking forward to it?  Do you appreciate what we're trying to tell you?  Limbs heavy, Eyes don't want to open, Brain...being a sociopath towards the rest of the team.  

You start off doing so well too, it's hard to tell if you're genuinely tweaked or just exceptionally malicious, "[...]I'll remember to do that tomorrow.  Mm, bed so soft and warm, not like...not-beds...so...night...things... ... ... ... ... ... Acorns!  They wear little berets."

What.  The.  Hell.  You need to stop.  Not okay.  And worse, it's often when you know we got to get up in a few hours.  You know this.  It's worse than the time you woke us up because you figured out the solution in a puzzle was to jump.  To jump.  You jag.

Sincerely,

Body

Lessons vol. I

Things I will never learn:

• When food comes out of the oven/off the stove IT IS HOT.  Do not immediately put in mouth.  Or touch with bare hands.  This is bad and will cause pain and may result in the inability to taste anything for a while.
• When at all-you-can-eat, stop eating when you are full.  NOT when the food is gone.  It is never-ending.  This is a losing battle that unfailingly ends with you wishing for the sweet release of death.
• Do not let Terri pour your drinks without supervision.  That is how "two drinks" ends up being half a 750ml bottle - with just enough OJ to qualify it as yellow vodka.  This is both expensive and will end up with you blackout drunk if not just blacked out.  By 9:30.  This is how you ended up in pants with pumpkins at 5AM that time.
• The 90s:  there's people who don't get it.
• You're probably the only person (okay, one of few) who appreciates the vibrant colour of your underwears in a way that isn't remotely salacious.  This is disappointing, but deal.
• Few parents appreciate you offering to discipline their kids though they've clearly forgone it.

DISASTERE.

I am down two my last two razors. (Also: !)
What do I do?  I haven't bought a razor in YEARS.  I used to have a drawerful - and not like a namely-pamby sized drawer, but a deep one, that's 3'x2'.

And (yes, I started my sentence with "and".  That's going to happen quite a bit if you stay here.  Even if you don't actually.  Just so you know.) since I had to open a new one that means I'm really down to one.  Which might not even be real, I just saw orange among the other misc. clutter and assumed it was the packaging, choosing to let my possibly-false-hope live instead of brutally killing it then and there.

Table for one.  Next to the delusion, please.

I should probably stop and mention, for those of you not stalking me on the more intimate level of reading my mind, that these are shaving razors.  Like for legs and whatnot.  Gillette Fusion to be precise.

So.  Why haven't I bought a new razor in the last…[math math math]…5 years?  See: Drawerful.

So.   That:  Well, about 5-6 years ago I worked retail at a some crappy videogame joint (rhymes with Belectronics Boutique).  And (Bam!  There it is again.  I also like abusing parentheses) one day they decided to do a brilliant marketing gimmick with Gillette.  This entailed them sending crates of razors to our store and instructing us to give one razor to each person that bought a game.  Now for part of our clientele this was an appropriate-ish sample.  For the rest who had yet to reach double digits in their age…not so much. Long story short, at the end of each shift, whoever was working would end up going home with (at least) a bagful of Fusions.
That was a golden era.  No matter how many I gave away to people I knew it seemed liked my supply never dwindled.  I was like the tooth fairy, except I didn't accept deposits of teeth and gifted razors instead of money.  Oh, and I didn't break into homes to leave them under pillows.  Yeah, just like the tooth fairy.

Even when the promotion ended I was still so arrogant, so full of hubris…
Which brings us here.

It's been too long.  When this one and the possibly-fictitious one are gone… I can't go back to buying them like some wretched derelict!  I can't!  There must be another way.
I will have to meditate on this.  And (one more for the road) savour these following ...okay, many months, with scandalously smooth gams for free - and tonight, fresh sheets.
Oh!

I am Mongol

So.  Here's the thing… I didn't think this was going to be a thing but it's happened more than once now so apparently it's a thing.  When I'm walking home at some ungodly hour (this would never happen when driving) in flats (E.G. my pumas.  Stilettos wouldn't end up like this)…
Exclusive to my trips to suburbia: [alcohol] + [fences] = Righteous Indignation

How dare they think they can keep me out?  If they had not put up a fence at all drunk-me would pay them no mind.  But there it is!  Offending me with its boorish 5 to 12 foot challenge.

Perhaps in my inebriated state I'm channelling my idol, and so making fences the Great Wall of China to my Genghis Khan.  Don't worry, though.  I have no desire to rape and pillage your yard.  So (just this one time) it's less about this:
"The greatest pleasure is to vanquish your enemies and chase them before you, to rob them of their wealth and see those dear to them bathed in tears, to ride their horses and clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters."
--Genghis Khan
and more this:
"The strength of a wall is neither greater nor less than the courage of the men who defend it."
--Genghis Khan

Your walls are pitiful to me!

Among my flashes of memory is being perched 10 feet off the ground, "I can see into your yard, and your yard and…hey, a pool noodle!"
Then there was one point of being two stories off the ground on the outside wall of my brother's old elementary school.  I forget what my divine purpose was there, but know that I was very determined.
Another flash of being in someone's shed, rooting through their possessions.  I didn't want to do anything with their stuff, nor did I have any desire to claim it, I just really wanted to see if they had anything cool.  They did not.  Or maybe they did.  It was very dark.  I don't think they did.  It's okay though, my mother raised me right: Put everything back as you found it or better, so they'll appreciate you as a guest and want you to come back.

It's no surprise that by the time I get home my 15 minute journey has taken over an hour and probably looks like something out of Family Circus.

So the moral of the story is if it's 3AM and you see a young woman scaling, jumping or even just sitting on your fence for 8 minutes - don't be alarmed!  It's just me.  Please don't shoot.

This is a Title

So, guess who's sick? You could probably name any number of people and be correct, but this is my blog and being self-absorbed I was referring to me.

It happened as colds do.
19:59, Monday
Me: What a great night to be healthy.

20:00, Monday
Body: Ha-ha! I'm going to punch you in the face with disease! All that energy you thought you had? It's gone now, sucka! Let's see you walk home after work now, [censored for posterity]!

It retrospect it was more likely the illness cussing me out but it felt like a betrayal of my body. I thought body and me were getting on great, but apparently that was all a horrible lie.

Dear Body,
If this is about that thing we ate… Get over it. I said I was sorry and wouldn't do it again. In the near future.

Why do you think I take you running every night and not eat like my fat inner child demands? It's not just for our exterior, dangit. (Which, I have to give you credit, is awesome. So. Keep that up.)

Oh, and we're still going rock climbing Thursday, so you better shape up because that'll suck for you too if you keep this attitude up.
Love (but not right now),
Cole

Also, apparently being barely lucid puts me in the mood for house music. Rare. Odd. Going with it.

UPDATE: So...working out at the gym? Not something you're supposed to do mid-fever. The good news is I didn't fall off the treadmill, per se. My jeans also remained on despite my feeble efforts as I decided it got too hot.

UPDATE: I have found the meds. Buckleys was not created for doing shots.

UPDATE: Have been given one command: DO NOT GO TO SLEEP BEFORE UPS GETS HERE. So of course my body's all "You know we should do? Sleeeeeeep. Sleep! I'll make you feel so good, baby. Oh, oh! Are you going to blink? Watch me turn that blink turn into a nap. Don't even act like you don't want this."

UPDATE:  ...UPS never showed.   Those motherf-!

UPDATE:  "WHY ARE YOU NOT PANTS?"

UPDATE: "I'm going to Jell-o the shit out of you." What does that mean? I don't know, but I said it. And apparently I was pretty certain of its undeniable truth when I did.

UPDATE:

About Last Night

Okay, I'm kind of cheating with this one since it's mostly (read: entirely) cut-and-pasted from what I wrote on a forum elsewhere.  It is long and I've deemed it blog-worthy so... Whatever, I do what I want.

New neighbour-friends and I went out dancing last night. It's been way too long (since...early September, I think) and if you didn't know, dancing and I, we have a thing. It's awesome and we are in love. Sometimes dancing does extra-special things that lets me know our passion is true, like play Whigfield's Saturday Night.

Oh, and the lobby had a couch swing. Unfortunately it only had about a metre of leeway so no matter how hard I pumped my legs it wasn't going much of anywhere. (I really tried!)

Now if only the weather was club clothes appropriate (no, not the other way around).

3AM shawarma, oh I've missed you so!

Also,
Dear Men-I-Have-Never-Met,

You need to stop. In fairness, some of you are sweet, but the others... You know which ones you are and you need to stop. Trying to tug my hand up as I go down the stairs is not going to make me follow you to the washroom for god knows what. (God knows!) Smacking my rear as I walk by is not going to suddenly fill me with desire for you. Here's a little secret too: stomping on your foot with my stiletto may have looked like an accident...it wasn't. You just seemed incapable of understanding every other signal that was to deter you from grinding your business on me. Including saying "stop" and us leaving the area - to hide from you, you creepy stalker. Men, I can only assume between this and the drunken compliments, ignoring my friends, awkward shoulder hugs and attempts to kiss me you thought you were some sort of Night At the Roxbury charming. Not a real thing, sorry.
Please...suck less. You do your gender no favours.

Sincerely,
Cole

I am still a litlle flabbergasted at the excessive hitting-on that took place. Much beyond the usual. Seriously, I went out with a glamazon and her sister and I got 99% of the attention (1% margin of error). Glamazon. The amount was more than enough for, say ten people or three sluts. Also, since they're the ones that would actually like that; I ended up feeling a little bad. Which is ridiculous.

Origin

This blog took two days to make.
Not because I was coding or learning how to code or was previously illiterate 2 days ago.  No, it is because every single brain child of a name for it was already taken by some other jag.  Seriously  the WORST people on earth have all my good names.   I checked up on them - absolutely terrible!
One went to a suicidal dude, another has only been posted in once.  Ever.  Third seems dead now (the blog not the person.  Though obviously I can't promise the latter), but formerly used by a hippie.  It just went on like this, each a trainwreck in its own right.  It was distressing.

So eventually I did what every situation calls for - I turned to strippers and science.  Using the time-honoured and tested wholly scientific tradition of uncovering one's stripper name (name of first pet, plus first street you lived on) I have dubbed this experiment:  Tiger Savage.  Yeah, that's my stripper name, not even kidding.

Tiger was my tabby cat.  Savage Rd, Newmarket was the first street I can remember living on.
Okay, to be fair I was born and raised for two or three years in Toronto first, before being kidnapped and forced to move to the boonies (by the very parents I trusted!  But more on that some other time).

Probably  due to the extreme partying and debauchery in my infancy, I have no idea what the first street I technically lived on is called.  Was called.  Who knows?  I do recall a balcony though.  There was no dividing wall between the balconies at our first apartment building, just a small "bump-thing" that did little to keep me from wandering into neighbouring apartments.  But I digress.  In any event, "Tiger balcony" will not be my stripper name.

So where were we?  Here?  Okay, soon I'm going to say "I hope you enjoy this little experiment" (meaning this blog), but honestly, between you and me, I only hope you enjoy it, dear reader.  All those other readers - screw those guys.  This is just for you.

So.  I hope you enjoy this little experiment.