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.
But I had so much fun, really. This is the last week I’ll be able to spend hanging out with my friends Michael and Nathan for, at the very least, a very long time. That makes me sad. And despite my tendency to get sick of a person after hanging out with them quite a bit, forty hours (not counting transit time) of hanging with Michael wasn’t bad at all. I probably laughed for about 10 to 15 of those hours, despite the killer work. Which, I shall be arrogant enough to say, made everyone’s day go a little better (my laughter is apparently quite infectious).
So I hurt, and because I essentially come home, shower rigorously, read, and go to bed, I haven’t had many particularly interesting thoughts, nor much interest in doing anything new or spiffy on this site. I’m convinced that once school starts, however, my creative streak and ambition shall return, as being in such an environment usually helps.
Last night, my friend Jenny threw a get-together (am I the only one who says “get-together”?) for our friends from high school that aren’t going to the school she and Michael are. We dragged everyone to The Peaceful Dragon for some good vegetarian food (although some went kicking and screaming, as though just because something doesn’t have meat, or even has faux meat, it’s supposed to be nasty), then we formed a caravan and travelled to Jenny’s house for last minute conversation about the good ol’ times (theoretically). There were two highlights of the evening. The first was driving down Interstate 77 (methinks), going about 70 miles per hour in pouring rain with the windows down (Michael’s car doesn’t accelerate well/at all with air conditioning on, and besides, it felt great), then pulling up beside my buddy Hannah, who is cool enough to own a bright green Civic hatchback, and yell/scream at her, “Who you calling PSYCHO?!” The look on her face was priceless, and well worth the strangely hurt ribs and the ensuing hacking cough and sore throat. A friend of Michael’s has a simliar habit of hanging out the window as the car he’s a passenger of is passing a strip club and yelling, “Perverts! You fucking sick perverts!” and variations on that theme to whoever may be standing outside, despite the fact that he isn’t a stranger to such places himself. I’m not that bad yet. Besides, I don’t have a good voice for that, as my yelling is more screaming, and is thus high-pitched. Quite, actually. The second highlight was the (re-)watching of the first episode of the first season of The Family Guy, a decidedly twisted cartoon (an acquaintance has the first season on DVD). The Kool Aid Guy rules, quite simply. Oh, YEAH!
[Listening to: The Cranberries – To the Faithful Departed – The Rebels]