roadtrip

why won’t he listen?
such startling idiocy
agonising drive

a long way from home
tunnel ahead leads nowhere
bullseye missed by far

river road gives hope
an escape from grueling hell
lingering madness

all reason be damned
wherever this ferry goes
I will go with it

I’d like to return this

I went in to get a refund for your friendship but they said I’d already passed the 30 day policy. Then they refused when I asked if I could exchange you for credit.

You were in the bargain bin, a final sale, the one that sat for years and didn’t budge on the shelf. Collecting dust.

How did I end up with you?

I’d donate you, but I’d feel bad knowing about your personality dysfunction.

What to do?

what to do…

How to pack ineffectively

Liam and I had possession of our house last week, yet somehow we have still not moved in due to being the slowest, laziest packers on the planet. Actually he’s been very good, it’s really just me. I’ve never moved before, so I’m only just discovering the pain that is packing your life away into boxes.

I’m trying to downsize as much as possible so I don’t have immense piles of crap cluttering up my new house… crap that I’ve dragged around since childhood. I’ve been mentally preparing for it for a few months, so some things are easy to get rid of.. others not so much. In any case it’s been more time consuming than I thought, especially since I have the attention span of a nat. This is the method that I’ve been using to pack:

1. Get box and go to room to be packed
2. Place one item into box
3. Take a break
4. Look at box
5. Have a coffee
6. Look at more items
7. Get really tired
8. Take a nap
9. Repeat next day

Can you see my predicament? At this rate it’ll be winter again before I’m in the house.

I know where I live

A couple nights ago I went out for a few drinks with some girls from my program for one of their birthdays. We went to some bar not far from my house, I’d say it takes 15 minutes tops by car if the roads aren’t busy. I took a taxi because I knew I’d have at least a couple drinks and obviously wasn’t going to want to drive, and I ended up staying there for quite a while. By the time I left to flag down a taxi it was close to 2 am.

The point of this story is the interaction I had with the taxi driver. He presumed arrogantly that because I was a young girl leaving a bar late at night that I must be completely plastered. I wasn’t drunk in the least. Tired, yes, but undoubtedly coherent. He decided that I must be so out of it that he could pull one over on me and take me sight seeing in my own hometown. It went like this:

Taxi driver: Hi. Where would you like to go?

I gave him my house address, thanked him, and sat quietly in the backseat. He proceeded to drive on, and I sat there eagerly awaiting my chance to crawl into bed and sleep. Somehow that wasn’t going to be the end of my night, however, as I noticed the taxi driver going in the complete opposite direction of my house.

Me: Umm… sorry but where are you going?

Taxi driver: To your house.

Me: My house is actually the other direction.

He pulls up to the left hand turn lane and we sit for a few minutes at a red light. Since it’s 2 am the roads are dead. It’s just me and him in this horrible taxi ride of bullshit.

Taxi driver: No, I am going the right way.

Me: It’s much faster if you turn right here and go down this road. I can direct you.

Taxi driver: I know where I’m going.

Me: Sorry, I know you can go this way to get there, but it takes twice as long. Can we just go the other way, please?

Taxi driver: Well, I’m already in this left turn lane.

Me: There’s nobody on the roads, I’m sure it’ll be fine if you just go.

Taxi driver: I can’t do that. Don’t worry it doesn’t take any longer going this way.

Me: Yes it does.

Taxi driver: No, no. It’s about the same distance.

I was pretty grumpy from being tired, and my annoyance level was escalating very quickly. I mean who is this guy to contradict me? I’m a paying customer. Don’t try and pull this crap on me man.

Me: Sorry but I have lived here for over twenty years and I can assure you it takes much longer this way.

Taxi driver: No it’s fine. You just relax back there, little girl. I’ll get you home in no time.

Even more annoyed now at being dismissed and called “little girl” in a very disrespectful way.

Me: I think I know the fastest route to my house, man. You just want to go this way so that it costs me more money.

Taxi driver: What? I don’t think so.

Me: ….

Taxi driver: I’ll get you home.

Me: Look, I’ll just get out here I don’t need to spend so much money. I’d rather walk.

I gave him a scowl through the mirror. He sighed at this point and then finally corrected his route and went the proper way.

Taxi driver: Okay fine I go this way.

Me: Thank you.

We rode for the next 10 minutes in horribly tense and uncomfortable silence, although I had a wonderful sense of self-satisfaction from having won the argument.

I think there must be some invisible aura of argument emanating from me because somehow I always end up having bizarre debates with people. Or maybe I just seem really easy to manipulate and rip off. When I was younger I was incredibly shy and so took a lot of crap from people in positions of authority. I also had one really horrible encounter with someone once and ever since then I decided I need to develop a tough skin and stand up for myself. So while I have been developing a confident take-no-crap personality on the inside, my physical self has not caught up yet, so I still have people trying to walk all over me.

Aren’t they surprised when it turns out to be the opposite. I almost enjoy it now. Almost.

Any one else ever have a taxi driver try and take the longest route possible? What did you do?

Popsicles and surgery

I have spent the last few days pretty sick with a head cold. Also I think I may have suffered from a mild concussion last week after… ahemfalling on my head a second time during yoga. Who knew it was so hazardous?

Anyways, my point is that I’ve not been feeling great. When I was at the peak of my pathetic whiney-feel-sorry-for-me attitude two days ago, I was telling Liam about how when I got sick  as a kid, my mom used to buy me popsicles to soothe my throat. Because he’s awesome, he went out and bought me a whole bunch of popsicles, grape ones (my favourite!), and also a bag of fuzzy peaches, a bag of sour patch kids, and a giant bag of salt and vinegar chips. All of which I ate on the same day.. minus a few popsicles. Now, though I feel better head-cold-wise, I feel worse in a different sense because of all the crap in my system.

But I’m digressing again. I hope you don’t think there’s  a point to this post.

Today I was having a popsicle whilst browsing through the wordpress reader, and because of it I suddenly remembered a stupid memory from long ago. And then it had to be a blog post. So here we go.

When I was 12 I went in for knee surgery because I tore my meniscus. I was always a wuss as a kid. I had a bad phobia of needles to the point where I fainted if I had one, and so you can imagine it was pretty stressful to be there for the pre-surgery prep. I cried like a maniac. One of those really pathetic cries where you can’t breathe, can’t speak, and look like you’ve just witnessed the execution of twenty innocent kittens when really nothing bad is happening to you at all. That kind of cry. I remember the woman in the hospital bed next to me really took pity on me, and tried to make me feel better by explaining how much of a breeze it would be and how the surgeon was an expert, etc. She called me pumpkin. She’s the only person who has ever called me that before.

I’ll cut a long story short. I got knocked out via gas, and coming out of it was the most fuzzy, disorienting experience I have ever had, as one might expect. I remember being wheeled around and periodically abandoned in strange hallways by different people on my little bed. As I started coming to I thought to myself this is horrible, this must be a dream. Thank god it’s a dream. Hang on, this isn’t  a dream at all… Oh god this sucks so much. This is awful. Eventually they wheeled me into the post-surgery room where I would be recovering with all the other less-wussy patients.

I remained in this weird disoriented state for a long time. I didn’t know where I was, I didn’t know where my mom was, I was scared, and I was delirious. For some reason one of the nurses offered me a popsicle, which I guess is pretty standard. Despite lying there like a corpse with my eyes closed and with no desire for a popsicle, I answered yes. One little word which I would come to regret very soon. And so she brought one over for me. I was still too groggy to sit up, or even open my eyes, so the nurse decided she better physically take my hand, and forcibly make my fingers hold on to the stick. After that she walked away, leaving me feeling very burdened with the cold non-treat.

I strained my eyes open long enough to see the popsicle held like an Olympic torch by my hand above my face. My arm was bent at the elbow making a right angle, but I was still lying vertical on the bed, barely able to discern my surroundings.  All I knew is I was lying there, holding this popsicle as though I was the god damn Statue of Liberty, except without the pride or prestige. With zero desire or ability to eat the stupid thing, and with little strength left to maintain the feat, I lay there holding the popsicle. I heard voices around me and knew people were passing me by, yet they paid me no attention at all. I kept hoping in useless desperation that one of them would see my very sad predicament and come relieve me of the horrible chore. Yet nothing happened. This went on for what seemed like FOREVER, until the popsicle actually started to melt, oozing sticky popsicle remnants all over my arm. And though I knew I was uncomfortable, and though I knew I must look like a complete and utter moron to all who beheld me, I just remained there like that. Because I was too weak, and too out of it to do anything about it.