derivative humour

Today, in math class, my professor humped the podium unconsciously for about two minutes while telling a story. He did it in a completely nonsexual way, like a five year old might. The story he told was also slightly humorous.

Pork, the one you love.

Today continues my time off, but with a crucial difference: this is reading week, “spring break” if you will. I'm neither healthy nor wealthy enough to be travelling anywhere, so what I'm doing is just catching up on the work and the people that I missed last week.

I cooked today. Brilliantly, from what I was told by those who partook. There was a pork tenderloin roast, marinated in garlic sauteed in olive oil, with paprika, cumin, thyme and white wine. Baked tomatoes stuffed with bay leaf in basil, garlic and balsamic vinegar. And finally, a mixed green salad with radish, cucumber, cilantro and apple, with a sauce made from lime juice, olive oil and tahini.

It met with rave reviews. My favourite being, and I quote, “If you ever decide to give up women, I would go gay for you. Mmmmmm, gooooood.”

Apparently, I cook so well it'll make you rethink your sexuality.

Capital, simply capital!

I need some more mineral oil. I use it on my skin after showering, its a godsend. But today is St. Valentine's Day. Can you imagine a man going to a pharmacy by himself, today, and buying a large bottle of what is essentially an all-purpose self lubricant?

Naturally, the cashier would say something like, "And how are you today, sir? Any plans for Valentine's day?"

To which I might reply, offhandedly, "Oh certainly, certainly. I've a long evening planned of stroking myself while listening to The Ride of the Valkyries loud enough that the vibrations traveling through the sofa are actually my primary impetus to orgasm."

or perhaps,

"The missus and I were just settling down for a lovely bout of anal intercourse, but when we reached for some lubricant - very important, you see - we were fresh out. Quickly now, I must hurry back."

Both of which seem to be in the accent of those two warner brothers' chipmunks, "Capital, simply capital!"

I think I'll wait until tomorrow.

Sushi.

I had sushi last night. I love sushi.

There's something about the texture of the rice, the way the seaweed wrap tears under your teeth, the creamy-squish of raw fish and the pop and crunch of raw vegetables: carrots and cucumber. Of a certainty, the person who made the decision to put avocado in sushi for the first time was a human of higher order intelligence.

I love the accoutrements of sushi. The chopsticks, the varied and many little plates and rectangular dishes. The salty tang of good soya sauce and the rush through the sinuses of real wasabi, not that horseradish facsimile found everywhere. The burst of flavour from the pickled ginger.

Sushi is a food that refreshes and invigorates. It is light, but satisfying.

I especially love that last part. It is light. Which means that when the opportunity arises for an all-you-can-eat experience, you can cram yourself silly and enjoy every second of it.

Ah yes. Sushi.

Stream of consciousness

I left the house this morning for the first time since Tuesday. Which Tuesday is not important. Pay attention. There will be A Test.

With a head full of fog, steel wool, cotton candy and all manner of obfuscating material, I rose from bed against a panoply of better instincts, all of which were screaming at me in No Uncertain Terms that I should go back to bed and stay there. I politely told my better instincts to fuck themselves lightly and with tenderness, then I put on pants.

In the kitchen, our cramped kitchen, all in white and unwashed dishes, I took my Little Pink Pill and drank my wake-up juice. I'm not sure the wake-up juice is working anymore, it's been so long since I started taking it, but I remember it used to make a big difference, so I keep taking it Just In Case. The pills are for my skin. Actually, the pills are for a medical condition I don't have, but the side effects are pleasant, so down my gullet they go, chased by a glass of berry coloured froth. The pills were prescribed for their side effects, I should point out.

I hate the way my head felt.

I had a very strange dream in which I lived in a house where I did not actually have a bedroom, instead dragging my mattress around to wherever there happened to be space for it. My roommates where Unseen, for the most part. Conceptually, I was aware that they were men that I worked with. My grandfather was the seen roommate, and he was an unpleasant drunk who was in the process of acquiring a Gross of alcohol through unspecified means. From what mom says, this might be an accurate portrayal of him. I remember him as a man in blue coveralls with a nose that would strike fear in God's bowels, who would smile at me and pack an ice cream cone to the very bottom with Blue Boy Vanilla. I like that memory.

Aside from the weird place In My Head where I spent part of the night, sleep was as elusive as innocence and virginity in a university dorm. The ability to form complete sentences gradually returned in time for the walk to campus with my roommate. Not entirely, but I could at least pretend to take part in an honest-to-goodness conversation.

Suburbia, in winter. This is what greeted my nonfunctional cranial space past the hermetic seal of the front door. Every picture of generic suburbs in winter that you've ever seen, resplendent with hoarfrost and just enough chill and snowfall to casually turn down the volume of the world, like things are happening just down the hall. It was pretty. It was also mostly wasted on me.

Phototherapy beckoned, the mistress I'd been neglecting. I really must pay her more attention. After all, she keeps the fucking cancer at bay. My life for the last week has been something that would have made a pretty good vacation, if it'd all been my idea. I spent it sleeping twelve hours out of every twenty-four, and most of the rest sitting watching Television and playing video games, until I felt like sleep would accept me again. But of course it wouldn't.

I was having complications with my body.

This happens from time to time. After I've been doing well for a while, I get cocky and try to do the things I used to do. My body then rejects my reality and substitutes its own. Fuck You, my epidermal layers say, We had a Good Thing here, why are you doing this to yourself. Time to learn you a Lesson. I wonder how many times I'll have to pay for the same information in minor organ failure before the lesson becomes a lesson learned.

Probably a few more, but it would be nice to think that I'm smarter than that.

I had my phototherapy, and I clawed against the sleep that I craved to make it to class. An Assignment was due, and I needed to explain my absenteeism to my Professor. He's a good man. “I have cancer.” That was pretty much all it took for him let me off the hook, he didn't even want a Doctor's note. It occurs to me that I don't trust people enough anymore. I did not expect him to be quite so agreeable. I think I'm turning into an asshole.

Then I came home through that Winter Wonderland. It looked prettier this time around.

I ate, I slept, I awoke with the proverbial new lease on life.

Oh, I'm still knackered, but my outlook is very much better. I'm happy.

Also, I've been reading things that affect my writing style. I should know better, but I've been lacking inspiration and they certainly do have the effect of spurring on this sort of verbal expunging of the bits and pieces that are clogging up my word stream.

mmmm.... sweet sweet sorrow....

Caffeine, steadfast companion of many days,
The time has come to part our ways.
It seems you make me sick, you see:
The want of you is misery.

My head is fog'd, my will is weak,
I know you'd give me what I seek.
Vim and vigour, zip and zest,
With you I'm truly at my best.

Except.. I'm not, no, not for long.
Though at first you make me strong,
In time I crest and then I fall.
No, you make me not so strong at all.

I'll miss you always, anyhow,
though to myself I must avow:
No more caffeine, not as my crutch.
Not on a date, not going dutch.
Neither doing math, nor working early,
Beware my friends, I will be surly!

Something New

An aside:

I work part-time in a small liquor store while going to school. It's part of a restaurant-bar combo, pays alright, gets me free food and most importantly, on slow nights, gives me a place to do a lot of homework. The job is not without the occasional peril, however, and tonight was a night that had some peril.

The largest part of the night passed without incident. Today was a Monday. Mondays are slow. I studied for a test, updated a formula sheet for a quiz, and then I watched a couple of movies with my coworker to pass the time. This is not a particularly demanding occupation, perfect for a student. Unfortunately, at about twenty-past-two on the Tuesday morning side of the shift, things got a little belligerent. Two men came in to make a purchase, but they were already well pickled. Not only were they drunk, but, if I'm honest, they were coked out of their fucking minds.

The altercation concerned one of the two men and it began with him pushing my friend and coworker. He apologized profusely. This sort of thing comes our way from time to time and the usual way we deal with it is to simply brush off some behaviour, let them make their purchase and get them the hell out of our store. But after the pushing and the apologizing, he repeatedly threw his keys down on the floor, threw a package of cigarettes at me, crashed into the rack with the bags of potato chips and alternated between threatening us and telling us how much he respected us for doing our jobs.

I told him to get out.

He did not take this well.

He postured and threatened and I pulled out Uncle Smashy, the two-foot long steel tool under the counter. Think blunt machete and you'll be on the right track. Bashing the counter top for effect, I reiterated that he should get out. He came up to the counter and reached for me, I pushed him back by the neck. He came back again and I slapped him twice on the right cheek with the flat side of Uncle Smashy. In immediate retrospect, that was probably a poor choice, but it did help us skip over the rest of the process and get him to come at me, which was when the bouncers, who had been sitting at the bar enjoying a drink on a night off, rushed in, grabbed him and, eventually, got him outside. This was compounded by the fact that they knew the guy and were trying to avoid beating him into a pulp, and by the fact that one of the bouncers... lacks tact and may have made the situation much worse. Several times.

Coke boy came back about ten minutes later to apologize, but then the bouncer-sans-tact came back in and things got slightly violent again, and the cocaine cowboy had to be ejected again. At this point we made the decision to lock the door and shut down for the night, as it was almost closing time anyway. Instead of riding off into the sunset, Chief Hell-Of-A-Drug decided to bang on our windows for a while. I called the police and they sent a car around, but I don't know if anything came of it.

Afterwards, I sat with the bouncers and had a drink with them. I needed it.

Here's the thing: I really wanted to hurt that man. He was belligerent, mean, rude and outright stupid. He pushed my friend and threatened us. I'm something of a martial artist. I say this not to brag, but instead to put in context what I mean when I say that I have demonstrated in the past the ability to not only hold my own in an altercation, but to be downright dangerous. I really wanted to hurt him, but at the same time, I really didn't want to fight him. He was about my size, clearly in good physical condition and COKED OUT OF HIS SKULL. I would have had to either choke him out or seriously injure him to put him down, and there's a great deal of danger in a fight when rapid incapacitation is necessary, but not in the sense that you might be thinking. The problem lies in the fact that the line between incapacitation and killing can be awfully fine, and this is made far more complicated by severe inebriation and drug induced states.

I feel guilty about how much I wanted to smash him, thankful it didn't actually come to that, but a little disappointed at the same time. I'm very grateful that the bouncers happened to be at the bar tonight, because without them there things would have gotten messy. Man, what if Cocaine Katie had pulled a knife, or if he was a skilled fighter?




Ugh. Now I'm all post-adrenal.