sound and fury (signifying nothing)

>pop<

ba-dum-dum-dum

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28 things health experts don’t talk about that really matter for your health.(and my own personal thoughts on them.)(another StumbleUpon discovery)

1. Overlook small inconveniences rather than complain about them.

…but what would I write about? Plus, they say ignorance is bliss, so I don’t want to risk being too happy and seeming like a feeb.

2. Change your own tire, scrub your own tub, dry your own hair.

Check. Check. Check. More out of lack of fundage to pay anyone else to do these things for me, than out of any real desire to be existential.

3. Let go of sarcasm by default. True conversation is so rewarding.

If I couldn’t be sarcastic, I wouldn’t ever talk to anyone. This wouldn’t be a problem if I didn’t work in a job that required public interaction. I suppose I could transfer to Record Review. Special bonus: I could listen to my awesome music while I worked. (I’m speaking of this guy who works there and does just that. I’m assuming he listens to music on his ever-present earphones, but who knows? Might be Radiohead, might be mind-control messages from the Mother Ship.)

4. Stop every hour at work to take a short walk or get a drink of water.

I do need to drink more water. The thing is, I don’t like ice in my drinks. So usually I drink canned soda and stop every hour to blow my nose.

5. Pay your bills on time. If you can’t, call the company instead of avoiding the problem.

I do try to do this, especially lately. However, trying to reach someone who speaks passable English and doesn’t try to sell me shit or lecture me is pretty nigh impossible these days. (Why would I agree to pay you more money? I can’t even pay you what I already owe!)

6. Return phone calls. (Texting is for pansies.)

I don’t like talking on the phone. At all. One of the few good things about my current place of employment is that I don’t have to answer the phone and in fact have no clue how the phone system works. I usually only text when texted first, and I always use proper spelling, punctuation, and grammar.

7. Keep plans. If you keep canceling, that means: find new friends. Hooray!

One step ahead of ya there, bud. I don’t even make plans. I actually did for tonight, but after someone mentioned that it would probably turn out like the Christmas party, I changed my mind. I’m not much of a drinker, not much of a socializer, and not much of a let’s-make-out-with-a-girl-while-everyone-records-us-on-their-cell-phones…er.

8. Avoid telling white lies. Asserting yourself is liberating and no one cares that much anyway.

That actually might be good advice. Being forthright can actually be quite a rush. Maybe I’ll make that a new policy: be as honest when talking to others as you are when talking to yourself. I would have to work on that whole not-wanting-to-hurt-or-inconvenience-anyone self-imposed taboo.

9. Learn the facts of a situation to the best of your ability rather than going the sound bite route. Because in real life it’s just too much chew and not enough juice.

SportsCenter called. They want their répartée back. What the hell does this even mean?

10. Read something every day.

So very, very ahead of you there.

11. Trust the opposite gender implicitly; reserve judgment for the individual.

I have to remind myself to do this – don’t make generalizations and blanket judgments. Not just when it comes to stupid, lazy, inconsiderate men, but with the whole drooling, stupid, consumeristic populace.

12. Let go of the adversarial mindset in relationships. (My court vs. your court instead of playing on the same team. It’s tough to keep the ball in the air when you’re both watching your backs.)

Again with the sports talk. What if you’re tired of playing on the same team with the same person and you want a switchup in the roster? Can’t you rough ‘em up a little?

13. Maximize thy gadgets. This is a fun way to stay sharp and spend money.

That seems counterintuitive. Buy, buy, buy, it’ll make you happier. Actually, that seems very in line with the mainstream media message, but hardly something that belongs on a list of things that will make you more centered and healthy.

14. Assume that whatever it is, it’s not about you. You’re just not that important!

Pretty much do that anyway. Don’t take it personally flatter yourself, that’s my motto.

15. Learn a language. If only to swear in it. (Just me? Anyone?)

I can call your mother a whore in Arabic. Does that count, or just make me a terrorist? Actually, maybe that’s what Ryan is doing with his headphones on; learning Italian so that when he does speak, we don’t understand him anyway.

16. Pay your own way.

I’m buying him furniture, electricity, cable television and internet, and running water; he buys me dinner once a week or so. I think that’s fair.

17. Remember that the past is done.

Again, what the hell would I write about? Or think about?

18. Ask yourself if you are acting or reacting when you feel passionate about doing something.

I’m a reactor. Is that bad? I mean, as long as I don’t explode and vaporize everyone within a 100-mile radius, it’s cool, right?

19. Find a cut of clothing that works for you and stick with it. Why go through life feeling any less than a million bucks? If Armani can wear the same outfit for a lifetime, anyone can.

Were that the world was more accepting of disheveled people wandering around in pajama pants.

20. Play every day.

Candyland? “Candyman”?

21. Fall in love with the person you want to fall in love with.

What if he’s controlling me with his mind and a voodoo doll? I can’t exactly help that, can I? And what if he isn’t even a he? I’m not about to let God get mad at me in the name of good health.

22. Conquer a physical fear.

Let’s go over things I physically fear.

Trains – how exactly do I conquer a train? That’s part of the reason they’re so scary: there’s no conquering to be had, other than just staying the hell off the tracks.

Heights – I’m not really afraid of being high up off the ground, per se. It’s just that I don’t entirely trust myself not to jump. Same reason I’m afraid of guns: it’s not really fear, just fear of myself.

Widths – it sounds like a Stephen Wright joke (and it partially is), but I have this inexplicable sort of freaking-out when I hold my finger and thumb an inch apart. I get the willies even imagining it. (Insert small-penis joke here. Heh, insert.) I used to have night terrors about it when I was a kid. That, and dripping water. Another tally mark in favor of my having Asperger’s.

23. Forgive.

I don’t hold grudges. Not because I’m some wonderful saintly person, but carrying anything that long requires effort, and I am quite lazy.

24. Conquer a mental fear.

Oh, I guess this is the widths thing. Yeah, that. And fear of rejection. And how do you conquer that, except by not sucking? I work on not sucking every day, but I don’t really think I’m getting any better at it.

25. Actually cook your food. Heat, time, and personal investment add so much to meals.

I can’t cook.

Okay, I take that back. I can cook like a motherfucker. In fact, I just finished the last of the leftover macaroni and cheese, and even a week old and reheated, it was still miles better than any frozen crap. I just try not to advertise that fact, and then surprise people when my lasagne comes out delicious and cheesy and better than DeVito’s.

I also may be slightly uncomfortable admitting that I’m good at anything. In that vein, the last batch of lasagne I made was definitely not better than DeVito’s.

26. Know how to build a proper fire.

Well, that goes without saying. How else are you going to self-immolate if you can’t even keep self-ignited?

27. Two words: mutual orgasms.

Here’s the thing, and Kevin Smith said it far better than I ever could: it takes effort and skill making a woman have an orgasm. And I don’t like inconveniencing people.

28. In all you do, commit.

I am not afraid of commitment. I am afraid of sameness and boredom, I am afraid of success, and I am afraid of elevators. I am not afraid of commitment, but when you do it enough times only to be disappointed, you learn to dole it out only when it’s truly warranted.

That may be the key to happiness – knowing immediately which things are worth throwing your everything into. Life and love are kind of set up so that the house wins, though, and you don’t really figure out how to get around it until you’re in your 70s.

Which is probably why little old ladies have a penchant for gambling.

The bones of self-assurance, self-reliance, self-worth: they may not make you live until you’re 90, they may not give you a six-pack, and they may not be available in whole grain. But they feel great!

I may not be worth much or have a whole lot of talent, but I am glad that I can at least come up with better closers than that.

Music: Led Zeppelin – Ten Years Gone

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I have a cat now.

She’s a cute little shit. I got her from Amber at work.

I face a terrible dilemma, which is reason #92,491 that it’s a good damn thing I don’t have children: I cannot, for the life of me, think of what to name the little bugger. (Buggette?)

I’m halfway tempted to name her Pterodactyl. That word makes me giggle every time I hear it now.

This is a sequel without an original. Well, there is an original, but it remains unpublished. That much vitriol isn’t healthy – at least that’s the prevailing opinion by those who make the decisions. I disagree, I’ve held a lot of rage for a lot of years, but I’m at the bottom of this-here totem pole.

This week has been extremely not-fun. I got back from Harrison last night, after three days up there. I don’t dislike the place overmuch, but the fundamental issue I have with the fact that I am even required to go there is that it makes me wish I was back in Fort Smith. That just ain’t right.

Here are some random thoughts from that particular suck-fest.

- Liars wear pants, so we’ll eschew them.

- Funny: rich white guys in golf carts talking about how black people are inherently lazy.

- Apropos: a “solution” that makes everything more inconvenient.

- “Depression hurts. Pharmaceuticals can help.” As long as you’re not fundamentally opposed to chemically altering your personality. To say nothing of the whole reverse-Robin-Hood situation.

- Having children seems very much like getting your brain removed through your vagina.

- My sister got the looks. I got the books.

- Austin City Limits is sponsored. By AT&fuckingT. And Budweiser. Shitty masscom and shitty domestic beer. Jesus wept.

That’s… that’s ’bout it. Well, for that. Parting thought: is it worse to be invited out with a group of people then abandoned, or just not to be invited out at all? I’m trying to decide who I should feel sorrier for.

Probably a moot point. I’m micrometers away from unconsciousness.

Finally, a project three years in the making that has been completed. My “books I want” Excel list is fully up-to-date, sorted both by title and by author, and each one of them has been added to my Amazon wish list. Not that I really expect anyone to buy them for me (although Grandma did, because she’s awesome like that), but the whole thing does serve as a handy shopping list. Once in a while I’ll get myself one, too.

Four hundred twenty-six books. At a cost of $5,469.53. That’s not including shipping, but if I do it the smarter-shopper way, it comes out to… well, Christ, fuck a bunch of that.

I have a theory about Christmas. There are a lot of theories about Christmas, the history and how Santa Claus came about, the Jesus thing, the pagans and their solstice bacchanalia, and the commercialization of it all. They’re all interesting pieces of trivia, but I don’t really much believe any of them.

I think Christmas is when it is and what it is because it keeps many of us from ending our meaningless, consumer-driven lives.

I say this because I’ve felt the best I have in a long time yesterday due to the arrival of a package that wasn’t technically even a present. I had bought something for myself, it wasn’t right, and I sent it back to be replaced, thinking “well, that’ll never happen.” (Warning: I’m about to talk about breasts, which some people might find enjoyable, but I’m talking about mine, so be warned: here there be monsters.) I’m not sure if it’s even entirely a consumer thing, or if it’s a woman thing, but there are few greater thrills for a woman with a sizable balcony than a bra that fits and fits well.

The thing about trying to find a bra is, it’s a royal pain in the ass. The fat-chick sections are of little help, because I’m not a traditional fat chick (ie, if not for the adipose tissue around my midsection, I wouldn’t be fat at all, because my arms and legs are normal); most of them, that I’ve noticed (in all my clandestine fat-chick-scoping operations), have small-to-average breasts, meaning that they need band sizes in the 40s but cup sizes nearer the beginning of the alphabet. Finding a 36 or 38 DDD is like finding Mr. Right – he’s out there, but you gotta dig through a lot of crap. And this is not just true of WalMart – even places designed for the more Rubenesque of us (Catherine’s, Lane Bryant) follow the same general rule.

So I finally went online and ordered another over-the-shoulder boulder-holder. It arrived and didn’t fit, I guess because the brand was one I wasn’t used to, so I returned it, requesting another size. The replacement was waiting in my mailbox when I got home yesterday, and it fit like a dream, and nothing budged, even after jumping around like some sort of gravity-protesting fool.

And that’s why I feel good today, even though I was woken up by someone calling my phone looking for someone else. I get a lot of those.

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End bra-talk. (I don’t think Jeramy comes here much, but I imagine he’s all squirmy if he didn’t skip that last.)

Speaking of whom, he sent me a link to this last night. It’s hilarious reading, but definitely not for the squeamish.

Music: Bush – Monkey

I guess it’s a little cheesy to wish myself luck, but there aren’t very many others who know about what I’m doing today. I’m not sure why that is, but I’ve been told (and people have been acting) very hush-hush about it, so I’ve been trying to keep it under my hat.

I’m trying to be better about keeping said hat on my head. When I was in high school, I was pretty good about not running my mouth about stuff. I’ve thought about this, and the conclusion is that, back then, there was a series of guys I was pretty seriously into (these were one-sided, for the most part) that I would have been mortified if anyone had found out I liked. I’m not even sure why; it’s not like they were total chuds. I do know that I had a really thin skin. Now it’s new and improved, with greater thickness. Plus I know it’s not a crime against humanity to have a damn crush.

(Just a mite silly. The kind of silly that would damn sure come in handy at the nadir of a bout of SAD.)

But I think one thing that may stand in my way of this thing that I need luck for, is the fact that I am good at being told what to do, and I am good at telling myself what to do, but not always so good at telling others what to do. People ask why, and I don’t always know the answer to that question. I can bullshit myself all day long, but other people are a little harder to con-….

Wait a second. These are people who don’t know that a closed fracture is the exact same thing as a broken bone that does not protrude through the skin, and that medications that inhibit platelet function are pretty much the same as anticoagulants. If I get this job (the only way that will happen is if there were no other applicants), I could probably get away with telling fairy tales and fables.

That makes me feel much better. Time to get dressed and not eat breakfast.

… but no California stars for me. Instead I get fitful sleep, Arkansas mugginess (in fucking December!?), and strange dreams, not the least among them about a movie called I Am a Science Lie and starring teenagers who can calculate projectile physics in their heads.

I read recently that Oklahoma has the highest rate of depression and suicide in the nation. I do wish they’d shield that shit, because how could it not leak over into border towns like Fort Smith? They’re always over here, the roamin’ Oklahomans, for work or for fun or just to get in front of me on the road and drive like idiots. I suppose I shouldn’t hold their idiotic driving habits against them; it may be really hard to operate a vehicle when you’re despondent.

(Actually, it’s not. I think many of them are on drugs. Not that I blame them.)

Speaking of drugs, one thing no one tells you about painkillers is that they also put a lock on the cage wherein your emotions reside. Not that I’m taking them recreationally (not that there’s fuck-all anyone could do about it, because pain is what the patient says it is, and mental pain is no exception), but I’ve been cramping like an S-O-B for the last two days, bleeding like a stuck pig, and it’s entirely the wrong time for it.

The thing is, that’s my body’s response to pure-D stress, and I don’t really know why I am or should be. Yes, I’ve been unable to go to California for the third time in three months. Yes, it got all fucked-up over one lousy day, and yes, I probably still could have had it if I weren’t so stubborn and didn’t have this need for structure. (There’s no way I could have been in limbo about it until one day before. Entire organs would be leaking out of me. And I’d probably be bald.) But I look at it from everyone else’s point of view, and all I can do is wonder how I even stand to drag my fat ass out of bed at all, and why I bother.

What I’m saying is, I don’t blame them for not wanting to work for me, or for thinking I’m a petulant, petty, ungrateful bitch. If I were any one of them, my thoughts would be, “She just got time off. She just saw her family. And now she wants more? The spoiled brat wants more time off? Well, fuck a bunch of that.”

To be fair, the time off I just got to see my family was only one day – the rest of it was time I simply wasn’t put on the schedule to work. It all came together abnormally well, for me, and I must have been quite a fool to expect such astronomical linearity twice. Jamie worked for me the Saturday I was scheduled, and I know she appreciates me (I do try to work my ass off), I have to wonder if she likes me very much. I’m pretty sure that the rest of them don’t.

Not that that’s anything unusual. Not that I disagree with them in the slightest.

Music: Better Than Ezra – Porcelain

I’ve got the song “Can’t Cry Anymore” stuck in my head. That’s okay, I suppose, and true enough as it were. I could try and be existential about it, because it beats the hell out of acting like a spoiled little brat.

And I can’t snooze anymore. That’s weird, wild stuff. I wake up, and no matter how early it is, I stay that way.

If any of this is confusing (and it’s confusing me, but I have bigger issues), the summary of it is, I am staying in Arkansas. With an aching in my heart.

I’m absolutely wiped out. It hasn’t even been that hard a week, just a disappointing one.

In the blood business, this is apparently the slow season. The demand outpaces the supply because the suppliers are busy shopping and dropping and driving each other crazy with the Christmas spirit. As a result, of the five drives I’ve been on since I got back from South Carolina, four of them have not met goal, and three of them have failed spectacularly, including the trip for which this piece is named. The drive at which I donated 2RBCs missed because of the guy who told me he’d come back but didn’t, which kind of chapped my ass.

Today I was at Air National Guard with a motley crew including four staff from Hot Springs (which, thank Christ for, because the drive required eleven staff, seven were scheduled, and one had since been fired). I like military drives, not only because you don’t feel like you’ve just wasted your entire day for a paltry half-dozen units, but because military guys are fun.

Don’t get me wrong, I probably wouldn’t want to date one, but they seem more laid-back, and they aren’t a bunch of sissy assholes like high school boys can be (such as the racist drama queen in Harrison). And they come out in droves to donate, which I appreciate quite a bit; I get kind of tired of feeling useless because of my limitations (can’t do phlebotomy, can’t drive any vehicle bigger than the minivan, can’t key records, can’t pack units), so feeling useless because there aren’t any donors is insult on top of injury.

So I’m sore and tired and ready to sleep, but it’s a good kind of tired – a used kind of feeling. Not like yesterday, when I felt like I was wading through mud all day because I had to take a pain pill for my arm (flu shot from hell), then worked a dead-ass drive, then had to sit in traffic half an hour on the way home because of the Sallisaw Christmas parade, then had a Jägerbomb after work. (My first one, and while I didn’t dislike it, I don’t get the fuss.) When I went to bed, it was a depressed kind of tired, like you can’t drink enough to make you feel good, but you sure-god tried.

Music: CCR – Fortunate Son