This Has Taken So Much Time to Type, I'm Leaking a Bit In My Shorts. And I Feel Naughty. In a Good Way.

So, last weekend. A strange weekend where I removed little wooden shards from my body. This week. A strange week where I sit and wait for things to come, so to speak. Think of it what you will.

In celebration of weird shit happening in life, I will share yet another scintillating story. Well, not really scintillating, just tepid at best.

So, at the end of my fateful first year in college, toying with the idea of transferring to another school but thinking, "Fuck, I have to apply all over again." I decided that the best thing to do was to pick up and get the hell out for the summer at the very least.

(To answer your question, I never got around to applying for a transfer. I'm a tightwad. No way those bozos were going to get my $50 application fee. And I'm a lazy fuck. There is that.)

Anyway, I decided to pick up and leave. So this was the plan: leave school for Virginia, paint friend's new house, fly to SF to visit the brother, fly out to Nepal to work on the rice fields and community forests for three months. (And not because of some weird Asian identity fetish. So all of you leeches back off, unless you have money...sucky fucky 20 whole dolla. I highclass goods.)

The day before I leave good old New York for the great state of Virginia, home of Rev Soup, I ship all my packed goods off to Long Island so that I never have to see them again until my return. Never did I think that I would have to ask for them back. I realize, in my packing fervor, I packed the one thing that I would need for my summer adventrure - my animatronic evil cymbal clapping monkey.

Well, my passport. And plane tickets. Make that two things.

Anyway, I call my friend's brother and have him open up a couple boxes and there they are sitting in a box like a couple of egg's under a roosting hens' gigantic ass, waiting to be brought out from the dark.

My friend's dad then drives them an hour and half to my dorm room and I get into a car headed south. Ordeal number one, complete.

I get to Virginia and have a really fun time painting a house and picking paint colors and all that crazy hoo ha shit that really shouldn't be all that fun but when you have free reign to do whatever the fuck you want to a house, you do whatever the fuck you want to that house. You splatter it with rat blood, fill a giant tub with skittles, and go to town. (Those skittles, by the by, are like little dwarves, they burrow on up there and when you get them out, it's like a pretty pretty rainbow.)

Oh yeah, and you light some sage.

However, while I was experiencing some jollies of my own, I realized that my foot was beginning to hurt. I didn't think about it too much, splashed on some arnica and continued on my daily routine. (This becomes important later on.)

A week later, I am on the plane to San Francisco. My foot gets run over by a drink cart and then stepped on by some stewardress in high heels (that's right, the bitch ain't a flight attendant, she a sterwardress.) While seeing stars, I could make out the stewardress hightailing it down the aisle, an image reminiscent of the hen I referred to earlier. (Another hazard of preferring to sit in the aisle is that when in an aircraft taking a nosedive, you are more likely to be knocked unconscious by falling luggage, which for me, going to destinations with high populations of Asians, is really dangerous cause there might a bevy of things flying at your face- a severed dog leg (jerkied), a flatscreen tv, dentures, a toaster, a massive dildo, cuisinart blenders...it's not a good way to go.

Either way, I get off the plane and realize that the pain in my foot has increased tenfold. I get into the airport, hobbling on one leg, take my shoe off and what do I see? A throbbing purple baseball where my left big toe used to be. Hmm. Throbbing and purple balls will never be spoken of or alluded to in this blog ever again. Naturally, I can't really walk, so my brother picks me up and I hobble over to the airport clinic to get help from SF medical students. Now. Let's just set the record straight. I like California. I also don't mind doctors, even student doctors really. When you combine the two? No.

He takes an X ray of my foot and what does he say? It's either a broken bone or gout.
I find out later that I do indeed have a form of gout . And no, I'm not some crazy old lardinous British lady with my stockings hanging around my ankles like a cheap prostitute after she deals with a john that likes it rough. Or like your sister. When we were kids. In the public bathroom. It was a piece of cake. Ye Olde Bloody Cake. Ye Olde Bloody Pudding with a Bangers and a Mash, yea? D'you fancy some spotted' dick? Fer that Blood Pudding, yeah?

Anyway, it sucked shit. So there I am, popping "nonsteroidal anti-inflammatories" to ease the pain and you know what, I find out later that the drugs are just horsepills of Alleve. Fuck. No fun visuals there.

I finally, after a week, hang out with some other friends, spending most of my time high as a kite. I could say that it was to relieve the pain, but then again, why bother?

On my last day on the sunny west coast, I catch a ride back with my friend, still high, walk into my brother's apartment, and he's about to go to the gym. I say cool. He says, I'm not going to bring my phone. I say whatever its fine. He leaves. I go to check on my flight.

It leaves in two hours. You know when they trick you and say that the flight leaves at 12:05 AM on the 1st and you realize that that's technically the same day because you're an idiot? And then you check again cause you're still coming off some residual high? Yeah. yeah...

I panic, run around in circles like a chicken with it's head cut off..or a cymbal clapping monkey, and throw all my shit in a bag. My brother's roommate shows up and he's nice enough to give me a ride to the airport. We hit the road, I leave a frantic message on my brother's phone and it's all a haze.

Miraculously, I get to the aiport 30 minutes before the flight leaves and I get to the gate (This was before 9/11 so it was easy to scale security.)

I'm starting to think that something is telling me not to go.

37 hours of flying later, I arrive in Nepal. They pick me up, I am relieved, I actually made it. I hear explosions in my head, like fireworks lighting up the night sky, celebrating my arrival and my innate ability to overcome any obstacle.



Turns out, the explosions were real. The entire royal family was being shot to shit by the king's nephew with a semi automatic.

Adventures in storytelling!


If you know the significance of the image above, please comment. Otherwise, I can tell you about it later.