I'm just sitting here, right now, listening to ska music. I do have to say, I am enjoying myself. All seems right with the world. It's been a while since my grandfather has passed, and I think I'm pretty much over it, as over it as I can be. I told my mother tonight that I looked at granddads situation differently. The man survived cancer once 13 years ago. He was able to get 13 more years out of his life. Most people that are that old and get cancer can't beat it, let alone beat it handily, as he so did. I think of the small graces that were given because of this. My sister wouldn't have had someone to see her frequently, I wouldn't have had a father figure growing up, two of my cousins would have never met the man that made them feel most at home. Truly, those 13 years were amazing.
As an aside, I told my friends that I would dedicate most of this post to this one, interesting and unique woman that I've enjoyed conversing with recently. Talking to her is best described as fencing hand in hand. There's a sense of close delicacy, yet the infinite joy of rapier wit. Parries and flourishes abound. I happened to have picked up coffee from the Starbucks she worked at on New Years eve, and a somewhat odd, yet enjoyable conversation followed, wherein she claimed that working on New Years Eve was punishment for being bad. I joked that I couldn't recall anything I did that was exceptionally "evil" except for that 'Angry box of kittens that I threw at those nuns.' Chuckles were had.
See, the unfortunate thing about having anxiety is that I can do the flirting, I can do the casual this-that and the other, but when it comes to following through, asking for a number, I freeze up. To put it visually, it's like running with someone, only to look up at the last second and see that there's a brick wall in front of you. How did it get there? Man, that is an impressive wall, and I swear, it came out of nowhere. I should probably not run into that wall and look like a fool right? Righ-where did she go? I guess she couldn't wait for me.
But dear sweetness, she would be a catch.
Trying to man up for it would be... probably beneficial.
Anyways, Aquabats show coming up soon. Aww yeah.
Where was I? Where am I.
Ok, so, you see, apparently everyone is under the impression that I'm a good writer. Hilarious.
Certainly this blog isn't meant to be anything awe-inspiring tonight, merely just the ramblings of the Rude Boy deliverator.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
The Dead.
The strangest thing to me about seeing my dead grandfather wasn't the fact that he was dead. It was the fact that he didn't really resemble the man that I knew growing up. I still don't believe it was really the same man. I know this is some kind of coping mechanism, a morbid, dark coping mechanism, but that's who I am. It helps me remember him for who he was. I was only here 3 months ago, and he seemed in good spirits, talkative, still agile in the mind. To see that lifeless body, it just wasn't him, you know?
In another life, my grandfather would have been a king, and not just any king, but the king that you hear about in fairy-tales. He was just, noble, kind, and caring. He was the type of king that would throw a feast for his entire kingdom, if he could, and that's what he did. He was the patriarch of our family, and with him gone, it leaves an enormous void, one that I can only hope to fill a little bit.
One of the hardest parts so far is the time of year that this all happened in. Christmas time. My mother, the sweet woman she is, has all of the Christmas decorations laid about. The tree has presents underneath it, the door has a sticker snowman on it. My mom certainly earns the nickname "Christmas Elf". It's unfortunate that this makes it all the more bittersweet. It's hard to see so much "cheer" when there is none to be had.
Relics of him lie around still, I don't envy my mother's future work at all. I can't imagine going through all this stuff and trying to decide what to sell. I'd have a hard time choosing what to throw away, what to sell, what to keep, all of it. I'd want to keep everything. He had a thing for lions, he was a Leo. He wasn't really ever into Astrology, but he liked the idea of himself being a lion, and he certainly was one. I'd probably keep everything lion related. The pictures, oh the pictures, they get harder to look at every time. Part of me wants to call his cellphone, just to hear his answering machine. To once more hear the voice that used to tell me, "Well, Hello 'Riah!" when I walked in the door. The voice that once told me that he loved me no matter what, whether I went back to college or did something else. I'm going to have trouble listening to old crooner tunes from now on, that's all he listened to.
The man raised 3 daughters to all be amazing, productive members of society. Each of whom all have their own children now, all of which turned out to be stand up people. I have no doubt in my mind that he played an instrumental part in this, mainly because when my father wasn't there, he helped raise me and my sister. I used to come over to his apartment when I was feeling down, and he would cheer me up, give me Zingers (twinkies), dispense some of his infinite wisdom, then send me truckin on home. He was truly a saint.
So now, here I am, spending the night in the room where he was last alive. Alone, as per my wishes. Not for some nostalgic factor or anything like that, but to spare my mother and her sisters from having to be down here. They're all dead tired and drained. I don't think any of them really feel anything right now. I have my heaviest armor on myself right now. It feels like my throat is going to tear itself out of my neck and run down the street screaming bloody murder.
I think I'm going to have to end this blog tonight, this is pretty much all I can muster for the evening. I have to get up tommorrow, get a suit, and go to the funeral home to finalize arrangements. My grandfather never really was one for flashy affairs, and he had everything pretty much set in place, so, all we really have to do is carry out his final wishes.
If there is a heaven Granddad, I hope you're dancing. 12/18/10
In another life, my grandfather would have been a king, and not just any king, but the king that you hear about in fairy-tales. He was just, noble, kind, and caring. He was the type of king that would throw a feast for his entire kingdom, if he could, and that's what he did. He was the patriarch of our family, and with him gone, it leaves an enormous void, one that I can only hope to fill a little bit.
One of the hardest parts so far is the time of year that this all happened in. Christmas time. My mother, the sweet woman she is, has all of the Christmas decorations laid about. The tree has presents underneath it, the door has a sticker snowman on it. My mom certainly earns the nickname "Christmas Elf". It's unfortunate that this makes it all the more bittersweet. It's hard to see so much "cheer" when there is none to be had.
Relics of him lie around still, I don't envy my mother's future work at all. I can't imagine going through all this stuff and trying to decide what to sell. I'd have a hard time choosing what to throw away, what to sell, what to keep, all of it. I'd want to keep everything. He had a thing for lions, he was a Leo. He wasn't really ever into Astrology, but he liked the idea of himself being a lion, and he certainly was one. I'd probably keep everything lion related. The pictures, oh the pictures, they get harder to look at every time. Part of me wants to call his cellphone, just to hear his answering machine. To once more hear the voice that used to tell me, "Well, Hello 'Riah!" when I walked in the door. The voice that once told me that he loved me no matter what, whether I went back to college or did something else. I'm going to have trouble listening to old crooner tunes from now on, that's all he listened to.
The man raised 3 daughters to all be amazing, productive members of society. Each of whom all have their own children now, all of which turned out to be stand up people. I have no doubt in my mind that he played an instrumental part in this, mainly because when my father wasn't there, he helped raise me and my sister. I used to come over to his apartment when I was feeling down, and he would cheer me up, give me Zingers (twinkies), dispense some of his infinite wisdom, then send me truckin on home. He was truly a saint.
So now, here I am, spending the night in the room where he was last alive. Alone, as per my wishes. Not for some nostalgic factor or anything like that, but to spare my mother and her sisters from having to be down here. They're all dead tired and drained. I don't think any of them really feel anything right now. I have my heaviest armor on myself right now. It feels like my throat is going to tear itself out of my neck and run down the street screaming bloody murder.
I think I'm going to have to end this blog tonight, this is pretty much all I can muster for the evening. I have to get up tommorrow, get a suit, and go to the funeral home to finalize arrangements. My grandfather never really was one for flashy affairs, and he had everything pretty much set in place, so, all we really have to do is carry out his final wishes.
If there is a heaven Granddad, I hope you're dancing. 12/18/10
Friday, October 15, 2010
Hope rides alone.
Hurray. Another day has come and gone, all with an extremely overbearing sense of uselessness. Maybe I won't amount to anything any day soon. Maybe I won't amount to anything ever.
Oh hello depression, is that you again? Lucky for you, I made tea and cakes!
I wish I had a better job, a real job. I would kill for a regular 9-5. Unfortunately, I didn't finish college, nor do I believe in throwing my money into something that I get nothing from. I've spent over 35k on college, and I don't really have much to show for it, other than a totally bitching English class my freshman year, and some astrological knowledge. I spent all that money and I learned that I was being forced into going to college.
There were some things that happened because of that massive 35k sinkhole, and I don't think I should have left Indiana. I had a band, a solid set of friends, and some good things going for me. The band was actually starting to go somewhere. Hell, I still get random friend requests from people every now and again because I was in that band. I need a band here though, and finding one proves to be extremely difficult.
The nurse today at the quack in the shack was nice to me today. Turns out that toe that was problematic is being problematic once again. She told me that I'm a "trooper" and that I have "iron skin." I wish that were the case.
The truth is, today I've been way more depressed than I have been in a long time. As giddy and excited as I was about getting trying to get that job at gearbox, I was equally as giddy while thinking about death today. As in, man, that would be a fun thing to do, die. I don't really see any validation in my existence anymore. I don't create anything anymore. I don't really get to help people. Sure, I put a smile on people's faces, and I talk to people, make them feel better about themselves, but on the inside, it feels like I'm throwing stones from my glass box. I've been told by multitudes of people that I actually impacted their lives, and continue to do so, but I don't see it. Maybe it's because impact on someone isn't physical, and I crave things physical. Physical possessions, physical contact, physical affirmation.
I wish I was a lumbering jock sometimes. Maybe then, I could be happy. The hardest part to overcome in all of this depression is that I know I'm exceedingly intelligent, and I am trying hard to make use of it right now, and no one is willing to give me a chance. I understand that some people make things of themselves, and I understand that I hold all of that power necessary, but dear god, I am so terrified. The combination of crippling anxiety and depression is just killing me.
I'm trying to get back into programming, but I'm essentially dusting off a very very old skillset to see if it still works. I did start programming a video game by myself essentially, and got halfway through it before I got bored and started doing other things, so I know I can do it. Maybe that will impress Gearbox.
Fuck.
This is a really big gamble. If I don't end up getting that Gearbox job after doing the ridiculous, then I don't know. Maybe I'll have to move. Change of scenery. Canada? Chicago? San Fran? The possibilities are limitless.
It's recently occurred to me that I can in fact vanish off the face of the planet. Searching my real name yields only about 3 or 4 pages of information, whereas my internet alias yields something over the top around the figure of 15 pages.
This entire blog thing seems very slapdash, and for that I'm sorry Nathan, but it's train of thought.
Oh hello depression, is that you again? Lucky for you, I made tea and cakes!
I wish I had a better job, a real job. I would kill for a regular 9-5. Unfortunately, I didn't finish college, nor do I believe in throwing my money into something that I get nothing from. I've spent over 35k on college, and I don't really have much to show for it, other than a totally bitching English class my freshman year, and some astrological knowledge. I spent all that money and I learned that I was being forced into going to college.
There were some things that happened because of that massive 35k sinkhole, and I don't think I should have left Indiana. I had a band, a solid set of friends, and some good things going for me. The band was actually starting to go somewhere. Hell, I still get random friend requests from people every now and again because I was in that band. I need a band here though, and finding one proves to be extremely difficult.
The nurse today at the quack in the shack was nice to me today. Turns out that toe that was problematic is being problematic once again. She told me that I'm a "trooper" and that I have "iron skin." I wish that were the case.
The truth is, today I've been way more depressed than I have been in a long time. As giddy and excited as I was about getting trying to get that job at gearbox, I was equally as giddy while thinking about death today. As in, man, that would be a fun thing to do, die. I don't really see any validation in my existence anymore. I don't create anything anymore. I don't really get to help people. Sure, I put a smile on people's faces, and I talk to people, make them feel better about themselves, but on the inside, it feels like I'm throwing stones from my glass box. I've been told by multitudes of people that I actually impacted their lives, and continue to do so, but I don't see it. Maybe it's because impact on someone isn't physical, and I crave things physical. Physical possessions, physical contact, physical affirmation.
I wish I was a lumbering jock sometimes. Maybe then, I could be happy. The hardest part to overcome in all of this depression is that I know I'm exceedingly intelligent, and I am trying hard to make use of it right now, and no one is willing to give me a chance. I understand that some people make things of themselves, and I understand that I hold all of that power necessary, but dear god, I am so terrified. The combination of crippling anxiety and depression is just killing me.
I'm trying to get back into programming, but I'm essentially dusting off a very very old skillset to see if it still works. I did start programming a video game by myself essentially, and got halfway through it before I got bored and started doing other things, so I know I can do it. Maybe that will impress Gearbox.
Fuck.
This is a really big gamble. If I don't end up getting that Gearbox job after doing the ridiculous, then I don't know. Maybe I'll have to move. Change of scenery. Canada? Chicago? San Fran? The possibilities are limitless.
It's recently occurred to me that I can in fact vanish off the face of the planet. Searching my real name yields only about 3 or 4 pages of information, whereas my internet alias yields something over the top around the figure of 15 pages.
This entire blog thing seems very slapdash, and for that I'm sorry Nathan, but it's train of thought.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Resuscitation
I'm still reeling over the after effects of deleting my past, more or less. Its interesting to throw out things that I vividly remember, though the memory itself is meaningless. I'm fascinated by how torn up I am about it. This behavior is generally no bueno.
I've decided that I'm going to be hardheaded about this gearbox thing, trying everything within my powers to get me noticed in the next year, and trust me, those powers are in fact vast and... powerful. That was terrible. I apologize.
I'm taking another crack at programming things, I don't know how serious I'll get about it again, but it never hurts to stay frosty.
Sooner than later, I plan on getting a band scrambled together in the hopes to regain some sort of self respect. Lord knows I need some.
Perhaps I'm being too ambitious.
A good friend of mine, Nathan Grayson, thinks (foolishly) that I have some writing chops and that I should try my hand at that. Maybe I will.
There's way too many maybes in this blog post already. Time to get DEFINITIVE.
I am currently enrolled in a D&D campaign set in the wild west. I play an half-elf undertaker who's family was raped and murdered. Tall, looming, morbid, apathetic. Should be interesting.
It's almost time to get back to all this mess. Goddamn.
It should be noted that I am actively trying to make my life better, only asking help from a selective few, none of which have responded. Turns out that making your life better is an uphill battle. I've dealt with being alone a long, long time, I just had hoped that my turn at this would be over already.
Oh, and in case you happened to stumble upon this blog, or I directed you at it, the only reason I'm vehemently pursuing this Gearbox job is because it seems like it'd be a helluva lot of fun while also being challenging. There's no challenge to delivery driving anymore, lest we forget the horrible conditions in which one has to be a delivery driver. On the plus side, I have ascertained the skills to basically be "The Stig". Back to Gearbox, I'm not doing this because I'm some die hard fan. I loved Brothers in Arms: Hell's Highway, I think it was one of the best video game portrayals of WWII, rife with emotion. Borderlands is more than a metric shitton of fun. Its a metric^2 shitton of fun. That doesn't mean I went so apeshit for the game that I said to myself, "OH SWEET GOLLY GEE WILLICKERS, I WANTSA WORK HERE!" Hardly. If I was going to do something of that caliber, it would probably directed towards Bungie or Bioware. To me, fun is the most important thing in life. If you're not having fun, you're certainly pissing your life away. What's the point of ascertaining money? It's pointless to you when you're dead and gone. Well, I take that back. The pulp from it may make beautiful fertilizer for the flowers on your grave.
I've decided that I'm going to be hardheaded about this gearbox thing, trying everything within my powers to get me noticed in the next year, and trust me, those powers are in fact vast and... powerful. That was terrible. I apologize.
I'm taking another crack at programming things, I don't know how serious I'll get about it again, but it never hurts to stay frosty.
Sooner than later, I plan on getting a band scrambled together in the hopes to regain some sort of self respect. Lord knows I need some.
Perhaps I'm being too ambitious.
A good friend of mine, Nathan Grayson, thinks (foolishly) that I have some writing chops and that I should try my hand at that. Maybe I will.
There's way too many maybes in this blog post already. Time to get DEFINITIVE.
I am currently enrolled in a D&D campaign set in the wild west. I play an half-elf undertaker who's family was raped and murdered. Tall, looming, morbid, apathetic. Should be interesting.
It's almost time to get back to all this mess. Goddamn.
It should be noted that I am actively trying to make my life better, only asking help from a selective few, none of which have responded. Turns out that making your life better is an uphill battle. I've dealt with being alone a long, long time, I just had hoped that my turn at this would be over already.
Oh, and in case you happened to stumble upon this blog, or I directed you at it, the only reason I'm vehemently pursuing this Gearbox job is because it seems like it'd be a helluva lot of fun while also being challenging. There's no challenge to delivery driving anymore, lest we forget the horrible conditions in which one has to be a delivery driver. On the plus side, I have ascertained the skills to basically be "The Stig". Back to Gearbox, I'm not doing this because I'm some die hard fan. I loved Brothers in Arms: Hell's Highway, I think it was one of the best video game portrayals of WWII, rife with emotion. Borderlands is more than a metric shitton of fun. Its a metric^2 shitton of fun. That doesn't mean I went so apeshit for the game that I said to myself, "OH SWEET GOLLY GEE WILLICKERS, I WANTSA WORK HERE!" Hardly. If I was going to do something of that caliber, it would probably directed towards Bungie or Bioware. To me, fun is the most important thing in life. If you're not having fun, you're certainly pissing your life away. What's the point of ascertaining money? It's pointless to you when you're dead and gone. Well, I take that back. The pulp from it may make beautiful fertilizer for the flowers on your grave.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
In a Mellow Mood for the Fall of Man
I'm just kinda sitting at my desk right now, on the cusp of what could be a major changing point in my life. So many events are swirling around, I'm kind of lost in a daze. I don't really believe this is real.
I'm sitting at my desk, choked up at the thought of what I am doing, and it's only started to hit me now. I'm writing the longest goodbye for someone that I've ever done. I don't know if I'll see him again. I probably will, but you can never set anything in stone.
The deep realization hits me like a Mack truck. This is probably the most potent thing in my life. I am so distraught over this, and the collection of shit that I'm going through, that collecting myself and trying to form it into words seems beyond pointless.
I feel like the rug is being pulled out from beneath me, and I'm scared.
I'm scared that I'll land on something better.
I'm sitting at my desk, choked up at the thought of what I am doing, and it's only started to hit me now. I'm writing the longest goodbye for someone that I've ever done. I don't know if I'll see him again. I probably will, but you can never set anything in stone.
The deep realization hits me like a Mack truck. This is probably the most potent thing in my life. I am so distraught over this, and the collection of shit that I'm going through, that collecting myself and trying to form it into words seems beyond pointless.
I feel like the rug is being pulled out from beneath me, and I'm scared.
I'm scared that I'll land on something better.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
A change of pace
I find dwelling on the past to be somewhat rewarding, somewhat painful. I find many people telling me to stop reliving the past, but the past is what makes us who we are, makes us stronger, develops our character. I am a person who remembers all the little things, the tiny details. I keep constant record of all these things in case I may need to use them again one day. To say my life is hard is to be dramatic. It's stressful, yes, and I end up being on the wrong side of luck and circumstance more often than not. Yet somehow, I persevere. I don't know why or how, what motivation I may have, but for some reason, I keep going. Maybe it's the fact that as human beings, we know nothing else than life. It's all we've ever done. We live in the shadow of death, the inevitable fate that becomes us all. As hard as my life seems, I always seems to dance on the edge of light and dark. I can never give into the dark side, as one may say, but I cannot stay in the light, whether by choice or some sort of catastrophic intervention. I am, for all intents and purposes, a perfect balance. I want what I don't want, I desire what I can't have. I long for love of those that cannot, and probably will never love back. I play devil's advocate too often for my own good. I hope, and wish that this blog will signify some sort of change in my life, some new direction that my road may go, but I know it will not be the case. I was hoping that breaking my hand back in April would have been the worst I would have seen all year, but the fates disagree. Here I am, writing a blog that was once deceased, resurrecting the fallen if you will. I sit in the second floor of a house in the Oak Park suburb of Chicago. I long to go home. Why? I couldn't tell you. The only thing I really have going for me in Dallas is a job. Sure, my father is there, but I feel as though I've worn out my welcome. It's the same with the few friends I have there. I feel as though I hang out with them too much, like I'm a burden to their existence. Hell, even the friend that I once likened to my brother seems to want nothing to do with me. Maybe it's part of life's process. Maybe all things drift apart. Maybe I am starting to crack at the seams.
I guess the main thing that bothers me right now is that one of the most amazing people I've met is moving to Australia. I only knew her for two weeks before she left, but I liken her leaving to having a taste of ambrosia only for it to disappear forever. It will always leave you wanting more. I feel as though she had plenty of wonders in store, many delightful surprises for me to discover. I realize I have grown too attached to someone who was going away, and that is my fault. I curse the heavens for tempting me with a flower so beautiful.
Perhaps in my confused state, I'll haphazardly stumble into some good fortune.
I guess the main thing that bothers me right now is that one of the most amazing people I've met is moving to Australia. I only knew her for two weeks before she left, but I liken her leaving to having a taste of ambrosia only for it to disappear forever. It will always leave you wanting more. I feel as though she had plenty of wonders in store, many delightful surprises for me to discover. I realize I have grown too attached to someone who was going away, and that is my fault. I curse the heavens for tempting me with a flower so beautiful.
Perhaps in my confused state, I'll haphazardly stumble into some good fortune.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Club hand comes seperately.
Typing with a broken right hand is, to say the least, interesting and complex. I have my hand rotated at a 60 degree angle to maximize the reach of my 3 movable fingers. Bless you Thumb, pointer, and middle finger.
Maybe this is a good thing. Recently, I have found myself typing faster than I can think. This recent injury has forced me to slow down, and is forcing me to find some new level of harmony between my typing fingers. I have been typing rediculously fast since my early teenager years, and now I'm at the point where I don't even have to look at the keyboard to know where the keys are. I can type sentences while looking at something else. Except for now. Now, I feel crippled, but like every other challenge in my life, I will get over it, better, faster, stronger.
Now, you may be wondering how I got a "Boxer's Fracture." It's self inflicted, unintentionally mind you. It was the release of everything that's happened recently. That moment there was the zenith. Everything will be downhill from now, I can feel it. I just have to remember that hills have dips and plateaus...
The hand. Yes. How was it injured? How did I unintentionally break it myself? Over a handfull of people have asked me that today, and I have more or less been reinacting Heath Ledger's joker. Everytime the story is different, from actually boxing to just "being as awesome as Chuck Norris. So awesome, my hand couldn't take it anymore." What really happened though, I punched a solid metal door, and those don't give way much. In fact, they give as much as Scrooge McDuck.
So, I broke my hand, at work, around 8PM. Scrambled to find some place open that was not a hospital in the hopes for a temporary fix so I could keep working. That's me, willing to sacrifice myself for pretty much anything else. Until I took a good look at my hand and realized I had not, as originally thought, simply dislocated the finger. I go back, call in a replacement. I will send his wife flowers because I disturbed their lovely evening. I begin to drive in the general direction of where I think Parkland Hospital is. I frantically try and call my friend Josh, who's parents work at Parkland part time. No answer, just my luck. I call my dad and ask, where he tells me its at "Mockingbird and Inwood." I head in that direction. No dice. I begin to panic. My mind is only more cold and calculating when I panic luckily, so I call the first person I think of who could have near instant access to Josh, Nathan. He answers his phone almost immediately. I try and hide the fact that I can barely talk because turning the wheel of a car with a broken metacarpal bone is rather excruciating. He proceeds to tell me that Josh is as home, but he will check on AIM to see if he's available. Sure enough, I finally get in touch with Josh, and he directs me there, though I had to make the most painful U-turn in my life to do so. I walk in to the security station at 915 or so, exhausted and wishing it all would end. The security officer asks me my business in the hospital. I place my hand on the counter and say, "Well good sir, it appears as though I have broken my hand, and I am seeking a solution." He doesn't smile, or acknowledge anything, merely asks for my I.D. and gives me an emergency pass. I head towards the elevators, down sterile hallways, past beeping machines. I take an elevator down to the G level. I see the check in desk, and head over to the booth. A man looks up and asks me what's wrong. "Umm, I believe a broken hand." He begins to look up skeptically until he sees that part of my 5th metacarpal is at a 30 degree angle. "Oh! Umm, this way." He takes me down to the emergency check in, apparently I'm special. The lady behind that booth looks at me, and asks me a series of questions. I try and stay light and chipper. Then, the inevitable, "What happened?" I think I said something about punching a wall out of anger, the truth is best for this situation. I then made a joke about it, but it has since slipped my mind. She gives me a ticket, tells me to sit down and try to relax, and that someone will be with me shortly. Its probably 9:30PM when I sit down. Little did I know that I would still be at that hospital over 10 hours later...
Apologies for the split post about the same topic, I realized that I would be typing for hours if I told the whole story tonight, plus, I need my rest right now. Again, apologies.
Currently listening to... Art of Noise - Seduction of Claude Debussey. My favorite album of all time.
Maybe this is a good thing. Recently, I have found myself typing faster than I can think. This recent injury has forced me to slow down, and is forcing me to find some new level of harmony between my typing fingers. I have been typing rediculously fast since my early teenager years, and now I'm at the point where I don't even have to look at the keyboard to know where the keys are. I can type sentences while looking at something else. Except for now. Now, I feel crippled, but like every other challenge in my life, I will get over it, better, faster, stronger.
Now, you may be wondering how I got a "Boxer's Fracture." It's self inflicted, unintentionally mind you. It was the release of everything that's happened recently. That moment there was the zenith. Everything will be downhill from now, I can feel it. I just have to remember that hills have dips and plateaus...
The hand. Yes. How was it injured? How did I unintentionally break it myself? Over a handfull of people have asked me that today, and I have more or less been reinacting Heath Ledger's joker. Everytime the story is different, from actually boxing to just "being as awesome as Chuck Norris. So awesome, my hand couldn't take it anymore." What really happened though, I punched a solid metal door, and those don't give way much. In fact, they give as much as Scrooge McDuck.
So, I broke my hand, at work, around 8PM. Scrambled to find some place open that was not a hospital in the hopes for a temporary fix so I could keep working. That's me, willing to sacrifice myself for pretty much anything else. Until I took a good look at my hand and realized I had not, as originally thought, simply dislocated the finger. I go back, call in a replacement. I will send his wife flowers because I disturbed their lovely evening. I begin to drive in the general direction of where I think Parkland Hospital is. I frantically try and call my friend Josh, who's parents work at Parkland part time. No answer, just my luck. I call my dad and ask, where he tells me its at "Mockingbird and Inwood." I head in that direction. No dice. I begin to panic. My mind is only more cold and calculating when I panic luckily, so I call the first person I think of who could have near instant access to Josh, Nathan. He answers his phone almost immediately. I try and hide the fact that I can barely talk because turning the wheel of a car with a broken metacarpal bone is rather excruciating. He proceeds to tell me that Josh is as home, but he will check on AIM to see if he's available. Sure enough, I finally get in touch with Josh, and he directs me there, though I had to make the most painful U-turn in my life to do so. I walk in to the security station at 915 or so, exhausted and wishing it all would end. The security officer asks me my business in the hospital. I place my hand on the counter and say, "Well good sir, it appears as though I have broken my hand, and I am seeking a solution." He doesn't smile, or acknowledge anything, merely asks for my I.D. and gives me an emergency pass. I head towards the elevators, down sterile hallways, past beeping machines. I take an elevator down to the G level. I see the check in desk, and head over to the booth. A man looks up and asks me what's wrong. "Umm, I believe a broken hand." He begins to look up skeptically until he sees that part of my 5th metacarpal is at a 30 degree angle. "Oh! Umm, this way." He takes me down to the emergency check in, apparently I'm special. The lady behind that booth looks at me, and asks me a series of questions. I try and stay light and chipper. Then, the inevitable, "What happened?" I think I said something about punching a wall out of anger, the truth is best for this situation. I then made a joke about it, but it has since slipped my mind. She gives me a ticket, tells me to sit down and try to relax, and that someone will be with me shortly. Its probably 9:30PM when I sit down. Little did I know that I would still be at that hospital over 10 hours later...
Apologies for the split post about the same topic, I realized that I would be typing for hours if I told the whole story tonight, plus, I need my rest right now. Again, apologies.
Currently listening to... Art of Noise - Seduction of Claude Debussey. My favorite album of all time.
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