Who You Calling Psycho?!

I woke up this morning at my usual time, 06:00, and my body said to me, “Ha ha, Lissa. This is what it feels like to be 85 years old with a cracked back, uncooperative muscles, and swollen feet.”

“Oh, and by the way, all of your mosquito bites shall simultaneously begin to itch, and your index and middle fingers on your left hand shall be swollen and unbending.”

I so almost called Michael to tell him I wasn’t working today, but the thought of calling his house at 06:00 in the morning made me get up anyway.

I spent this week working at my friend’s house, doing more of that digging I mentioned before, and generally managing to get myself mildly injured, chewed on, muddy, wet, and smelly. My arms and ankles are covered in mosquito bites (which hung around in swarms in the warm, moist air in which we worked), including a beautifully disgusting bruise that is covered with three or four mosquito bites. I cannot make a fist with my left hand. My feet have simply decided to give up on me and not feel better at all after rest in order to punish me for standing on them eight hours a day for five days. And my back… ye gods, my back. I daresay even a four-hour massage could not get all the kinks out.

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No Title (Because I Couldn’t Think of One)

Dear, dear, sweet Hannah. I would thank you for kicking me in the ass about my lack of posting, except that I still have very little to post.

Last Monday and Tuesday, I worked with Michael again, doing (alas!) more digging. Those times, however, my ever-giggly (and slightly disgusting, in a very guy way) buddy Chris was there. I must say, there are few things more exhausting than trying to stop laughing/giggling while two of your friends are egging each other on. And that’s not counting the ever-present digging. Utterly exhausting. So Tuesday, I brought my MP3 player full of Linkin Park’s Meteora, which helped somewhat, although they supposedly talked about me all day. Hmph.

I spent Wednesday recovering from that physical trauma, discovering a wealth of bruises (in particular, a very nasty bruise on my knee from a shovel handle that gave me something close to a panic attack when I discovered it–with the corner of my bed) and getting the kinks worked out of my back (thank you, heating pad!).

Thursday night (at least, I think it was Thursday, and not Wednesday; ye gods, I need to go to school!) a bunch of mes amis and I got together and ate at The Peaceful Dragon, a vegetarian restaurant of an Oriental slant. You gotta love any place that has “Thai ‘Chicken’ Curry” (with actual quotes around “chicken” on the menu). A lot of the food was actually pretty good, and some (including the “Thai ‘Chicken’ Curry”) was superb. The company, which again consisted of the giggly Chris and his tormenter Michael, among others, was superb. This wonderful dinner was followed by the Sexy Pirate movie for the low price of four dollars. I shall state for the record that sitting in the back of theaters sucks. So many nuances are missed when you can’t count the pores on Johnny Depp’s face. I mean, come on, guys! However, majority rules in group situations. The movie was punctuated with one of my friends’ imitation of Barbosa’s orgasmic facial expressions as he watched Miss Swan eat. Simply hilarious.

Continue reading No Title (Because I Couldn’t Think of One)

The Latest

Not much new going on… My debate with Cleric turned to the irresolvable debate of choice vs. nature for sexuality (as I suspected it would eventually). I say nature (although you can choose your actions/lifestyle that are based on that nature), he says choice for it all (as in, he chose to be attracted to women and not to men, etc.). It’s an interesting twist, but I suspect the whole debate shall fizzle out for a while. Sorry, dude.

Friday I went to work with Michael; essentially, we dug for eight hours. Actually, there’s no “essentially” about it: we just dug for eight hours with a couple of breaks (and really good peanut butter and jelly sandwiches). It’s interesting how hard and how easy that sounds and is. It’s physically hard, but not mentally difficult or intellectually challenging. But I tend to underestimate how physically challenging work like that will be (and, apparently, the monetary worth of such work). You’re working, and digging, and you hate to even look at a clock (I carefully didn’t bring one), because you just know that, although you started at 07:00 and have been digging hours and have that tightness building up in your back and that throbbing going on in your feet, that it’s only 07:05. Unfortunately, it usually is. And yet, it wasn’t killer, like to the point that I thought I was going to injure something (like myself or Michael) or not being able to finish the day’s work (it didn’t help that Michael kept making me laugh, though, which is quite a tiring act in and of itself). It did leave me just sort of sitting fairly still all day Saturday, though. Well, I stretched a little (or tried to), but the sedentary life was the life for me yesterday. There wasn’t a muscle that didn’t hurt, which gave my parents quite the laugh as I trudged/limped around the apartment; even my thumbs hurt and didn’t want to move. And the mosquitos had three full meals and some snacks from one of my arms.

Michael and I decided to hang out that night, though, ‘cuz it was Friday and… well, ‘cuz it was Friday. Turns out we were really too tired to do anything other than play a game of Star Wars themed-Strate-go (through which I cheated like a bum, laughing giggling hysterically the whole time). For some odd reason, I simply could not convince him to go see the sexy pirate movie… Hmph.

Luckily for me, my mother was game last night. Michael was right: it’s high time I obsessed about something; how else can I live up to my full obsessive personality-type potential? Bru-ha-ha.

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I Feel Short

I’m just about sick of being examined. Yesterday was my first doctor’s visit in two years, and my first physical in about three years. Contrary to the sage advice of my friend Jenny, I did not have my pap smeared (ew, ew, ew). Rose-Hulman requires a battery of tests, however, including (and this surprised even my doctor), an exercise test, in which the doc measures your resting pulse, then you jog in place for a minute, then your pulse is measured again immediately after, then again two minutes later. But all in all, the exam went well. Apparently, there is nothing to be done about the icky sac of fluid on my knee; it’s been there five years now, and there’s apparently no damage to cartiledge or anything, so it just sits there, more disturbing than painful (unless pressed). Um, yeah. Ew.

What was disturbing about the exam was the height measurement. I had no real idea of how tall I am; I figured I was about 5 feet, 6 inches, maybe even 7 inches. It turns out that I’m 5 feet, 5.5 inches (1.66 m). Now, a half an inch doesn’t sound like much difference, but there’s a big psychological difference between 5 and a half feet and anything less. That makes you short. Damn.

I may be short, but that’s okay, ‘cuz short people kick ass too.

I visited the optometrist today for an eye exam, and to see if I needed new glasses. Turns out only one of my eyes has worsened in prescription, and that’s only a single level. So I used my visit to get a second pair of lenses in my old nifty Jeep frames to take to college as backup. I would seriously hate to get eleven hours away from home, melt my glasses to slag doing some funky chemistry experiment, and be without a pair for the length of time to mail a backup pair from home or find a doctor in Terre Haute that has accepts my insurance, etc., etc. I got out el-cheapo, even though I got all the scratch-resistant stuff and transition lenses on the second pair (shh, don’t tell Dad).

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