Saturday, February 11
What the fuck I never knew John Denver died in 1997! I need to get my shit straight.

The topic of him came up again today when my mom was watching ReDesign with Kenneth Brown, a young and most likely homosexual interior designer who wears very trendy clothing and who bears an uncanny resemblance to John Denver. Or at least in my opinion. He's cool though.

HGTV is one channel that I can never watch for too long. It's too monotonous and boring for one episode of anything to last an entire half hour. That's how much I am not into that shit. Although I do like a nice looking house. I have no desire to design any interior or exterior any terior except for what clothing I wear, which is really ironic because I work at Pier 1 Imports. Oh fucking hell everything is ironic about me working at Pier 1 Imports.

Everybody has been panicking and raving about a supposed "blizzard" that was supposed to happen about four or five hours ago. There is so much snow outside that I could still see the tips of the dead grass on my front lawn. I knew it, there ain't shit happening that's to worry about. Unless you're stupid enough to own a Porsche and not have a garage.

In the past four days or so I've had about three nightmares. Jesus fucking Christ, if I ever want to be a peaceful person this isn't helping at fucking all. The worst one was when I sat in front of a person committing suicide, person after person, technique after technique and bleeding after bleeding. Another one was about sewers or something. And yeah sewers are fucking scary. And the third one? I forgot. I seriously don't know why for a person who doesn't live too shitty of a life has to endure such horrible images during their sleep. It's no wonder I look old, this shit makes me not enjoy sleeping.

Lately I'd also been reading stories about murderers dressed as clowns and hiding in people's houses as statues. You know, those urban myths with the babysitter and the "clown statue" in the parents' bedroom. And when the babysitter calls the mother if she could cover up the statue because it keeps staring at her and the kids, the mother says that they don't have a clown statue and tells her to take the kids out of the house immediately and call the police. For some reason stories like that scare the hell out of me. Or the one where a babysitter keeps getting these strange phone calls and when she calls the police they track the calls and they're coming from the basement. No wonder my subconscious is so fucked up.

Why is it always babysitters? Why not, let's say, housekeepers. We never hear about boogeymen made of two tons of diarrhea jumping out of the toilet when a maid is cleaning the bathtub. No, never. It's most likely because the babysitter stories are bullshit and are made up because the fact that they include children in them it's supposed to make it spookier. Well nobody cares about housekeepers. They clean up your shit and skinflakes and clean your dirty underwear. Children don't do that. Children make the messes that housekeepers have to clean up. Just watch, someday I'll be the first writer of the scariest housekeeper urban myth ever. Or the first one, at that.

I only went to school on Thursday and Friday this week, because the recovery process after getting my wisdom teeth pulled out was hands down the worst experience that I had ever gone through in my entire life. Some people are lucky bastards and it's nothing at all to them, but I had it really bad. I'll sum up of what a supposed five-paragraph story into just about five sentences: First night, Saturday, was impossible to sleep through because I had the flu at the same time. Couldn't breathe out of my nose so I had to breathe out of my already fucked up mouth and lips got so chapped that you couldn't tell them apart from a slab of desert land. Sunday was even more pain, because for some reason in the middle of a nap my stomach started screaming in agony. So much agony that I couldn't move a single goddamn muscle because it would only hurt more. And then it got to the point of puking. Puking out blood, motherfucker. Even when I blew my nose there was blood in the tissue.

Next couple of days couldn't really hold a conversation because of the pain in my mouth. All I ate was thin soup and lost about three or five pounds. Friday I tried eating peroggies and I could, pretty messily, but I finally could without having to rip pieces off like a fucking baby. When I got home from school and tried eating a banana, I still couldn't fucking open my mouth wide enough to fit it in and after a lot of struggling, gave up and almost welled up a tear in my eye out of frustration. Today, exactly one week from the surgery, am still a teeny bit swollen on the right cheek but still can't open it up all the way, can't stick out my tongue, and still cannot eat a fucking banana or stick anything into my mouth with chopsticks that's bigger than a sugarcube. But, mozzarella sticks I could do.

So that wasn't five sentences. Shows how much I know probability. Just like how Kanye West thinks he's the shit.


Christina N. @ 10:56 PM