Wisdom

I had my wisdom teeth taken out this morning*. The worst part--technically, the only part—was the needle in the arm at the beginning. I was told the drugs they inject are supposed to put you in a kind of “trance,” but I just fell asleep. When I awoke I was higher than I’ve been in a while. I vaguely remember trying to ask the doctor and nurses about their favorite Michael Jackson songs, and then realizing they couldn’t understand a word I had said for the bloody gauze stuffed in my mouth, which was completely numb. After getting home and drooling quite a bit of blood onto myself (attempting to drink a milkshake, I’d thought my lower lip was my tongue) I settled onto the couch to recuperate. It’s kind of an interesting sensation, the swelling and so forth; you basically look like a Dick Tracy villain, and not being able to open your mouth very wide makes communication a challenge.

I was just relaxing on the couch, watching Krull on my computer, when a flash thunderstorm arrived and then left, taking with it the power in the town and the entire surrounding area. We were without electricity for nearly half a day, which caused my otherwise contented family to stress and yell at one another continuously during the very time allotted for peace and quiet, due to my sister’s sickness and my own ill capacity. I couldn’t even join in the angry fun, what with switching between lying on my back to ease the dull pain and going to drool out gobs of blood into the sink every other minute. Summer is fantastic.


*It was actually yesterday morning, several hours after which I wrote this post, and was unable to post it until now for reasons detailed above.

LIVING AT HOME IS BULLSHIT, cont.

GODDAMNIT WHY WON'T MY BROTHER GO INTO ANOTHER ROOM WITH HIS LAPTOP SO I CAN JUST FUCKING WATCH CONAN THE BARBARIAN IN PEACE WITHOUT HAVING TO LISTEN TO HIS SHITTY STRAIGHTEDGE REGGAE MUSIC IN THE BACKGROUND AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Breakdown (It's Alright)

It seems I can't do anything right. The last few times I've mowed the grass, I spent a couple hours painstakingly grooming every inch of the front and back yard with the gangly, shuddering hunk of metal and plastic that is our mower. My parents don't seem to think I've done well enough; their complaints mainly pertain to the few blades of grass on the immediate perimeter of the house and on the precipice of the rock-lined flowerbed in the back yard, areas which range from exceedingly difficult to evidently impossible to reach with our current machine. My mother purchased a trimmer for this very purpose, although when I went out today to mow my father instructed me to ignore this device and just get all up in the flowers, "really put some muscle into it."

I finished the front without incident (though I avoided the patchy area encircled by the ankle-high upraised tree root, the terrors of which I detailed in this post) and did the bottom half of the back with somewhat less enthusiasm than usual. (When your progress is impeded by your inability to determine which sections of grass you have and haven't mowed, the result is a small but not insubstantial existential dilemma.) When I got to the top I attempted to put into action this half-baked muscle-based method of which my father spoke. After murdering some innocent flowers and dislodging several rocks from their decorative positions, the mower let out a violent snap, ejected one side of the filter casing, and--either from the damage done or from my terrified release of the safety bar--died with a whir, slumped halfway over the mulch. Somewhere in the near distance an alarmed dog barked in agitation. I left the mower strewn in the plants and went inside, utterly trounced.

So Hot It's Retarded

I've written about The Real World here before, and you can refer to that post for enlightenment on the history and rationale behind my fixation with the show. The new season begins next week, and will likely command my attention at least for the rest of the summer. I watched the trailer (which you can see below for yourself, if you please) and it indicates a viewing experience much in line with the series norm: a handful of fit, samey youths live in untold excess for a few months, occasionally finding random miseries with which to briefly disrupt their revelry for our viewing pleasure, etc.

The one aspect of this year's set-up that kind of sticks in my craw is the setting. It's not like it really matters much where each new version takes place; the cast utilizes their house and the nearby booze dispensaries to the same general effect each year. (Though I did find the un-forced lushness of the Hawaii season especially alluring.) But the Mexican city of Cancun, which I'm sure is quite a beautiful, industrious place in any context, takes on a special significance in the MTV dominion. It especially refers to the brief but intense pleasures of the vaunted college Spring Break vacation, and the network's past coverage of such events has a certain flavor that doesn't necessarily jibe with the slower, more minutely focused (albeit fancifully so) style of the reality series. I remember enjoying the MTV Spring Break programming in the mid-nineties, watching Sugar Ray and Puff Daddy prance around onstage as tanned babes bopped in unison, drinks in hand, projecting a careless spirit that I found genuinely moving. Perhaps it's this younger, less critical version of myself that doesn't want to see the two franchises muck each other up with incompatible attitudes. Don't get your Spring Break in my Real World--I don't think they'd get along.

The creators of the show actually made a movie, years ago--The Real Cancun--detailing such a scenario. I don't intend to ever see it; I don't imagine one and a half hours is nearly enough to convey the breadth of encounters, however repetitive, that occur on a regular season of the show. The only reason I watch it anymore is the chance to slowly get to know the personalities of each housemate every week, and then reel in ecstasy as they drink and fuck their way into TV oblivion.

I must also mention that one of the cast members (apparently the one selected by popular vote, and--according to Wikipedia--the second in the cast to work at the Hooter's restaurant establishment) is named Ayiiia. Yes, with three i's. I'm not usually one to ridicule another human's given name, but, I mean, Jesus.

Real World 22 Cancun - MTV Shows

Fasten Your Seatbelts, etc.

I stayed up ‘til 5 a.m. killing an old bottle of Merlot and watching this British soap called Skins. All these kids just fuck and do drugs and shit, it’s pretty good. Miles ahead of anything out of the States, as expected. I wish life were as simple as it is in these shows. I think relationships of any kind would be quite more enjoyable if you only had to keep track of like seven characters, like if God could only be bothered to cast so many roles and so, for instance, the chick who is very forward (as is the wont of her archetype—though of course she harbors a relatable sensitive side due to her sympathetically trying home life) would eventually run out of bit players to shag and would have to come around to you. I turned around to pour another glass of sour wine and found a box of Cruncha Buncha (Buncha Crunchas? Crunch Buddies? It’s already lost to me) on the shelf that I had forgotten I’d left there after purchasing for no reason. It was like my birthday come early.

Today I woke up around four. I made my sister some spaghetti and went to mow the lawn. I hate mowing the goddamn lawn. Adding to my general annoyance is the difficulty incurred by the thick tree roots protruding on the right-hand side of the yard, which cause the mower to make a terrifying sputtering as the spinning death-blades whack-whack-whack against the wood. Tomorrow (today) I have to finish the lawn and go to the dentist, who will likely wrench all my teeth from their sockets with an electrified pincer, the bastard.

Four more days until Frisbee. Then, if it works out, back to Massachusetts for a weekend of petty revelry. Jesus Christ, this summer needs to be over.

So Then…

Last week the folks gave me a wildly unfocused and over-emoted lecture about the importance of spending my summer wisely. I can’t ever seem to decipher their faux-conciliatory doublespeak, because the straightforward content of what they’re saying usually conflicts with the tone in which it’s presented. They’ve never actually told me that getting a job is imperative, yet the urgency with which they impel me to find an activity leads me to believe that if I’m not making money, I’m not doing anything important with my life (which could be true, but, well). I spent the whole conversation sitting on the edge of their bed, facing away towards the wall and the drawn curtain, with my head down. I didn’t want them to see my expression, whatever it was.

Later I went to play pick-up Ultimate (poorly) after not having really exercised for about a month, and I also didn’t stretch thoroughly. Halfway through I slipped and hurt my, um, quad or whatever. (The part of the thigh just below the buttocks. Is that the quad?) I just kept playing. Oh, and then I walked a mile and a half home. By the time I got back I was so sore that I could barely stand up. It was one of the better nights I’ve had this summer.

I Hate My Life

I slept all day and now I can’t even go upstairs to get something to eat, for my certainty of being yelled at for not job-hunting (which I suspect would be as big a waste of time as spending the day in bed). I can only live in my little underground lair solely on books and video games for so long. Someone please rescue me.