The Sun’ll Come Out – and then go back in

Two things before I begin being a better blogger by posting more.

Do you remember when you kissed me in the Fibonacci sequence and I got excited because it was the Fibonacci sequence and you got excited because I recognized it by 5?

I think that might have meant something important. Also, there’s an xkcd for that.

More also, this post isn’t about whatever this post was going to be about when I started it.

Right now I’m sheltering from the rain in an apartment complex that is, as far as I can tell, comprised entirely of Indian people. So far they’ve all been very friendly. I just got invited inside because I’ve been standing here for 20 minutes. Never fear, a ride will soon appear.

Ah ha ha. It rhymed.

And apparently there are Chinese residents, too!

Speaking of China, I tried a traditional Chinese rice ball today. It was wrapped in ( possibly ) bamboo leaves and it had nuts and mushrooms in it. It was absolutely delicious.

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I took a picture for you and only partially because I have no idea what they’re called in English or what the transliteration is.

So, back to what this blog is not about. It’s not about you. It’s about me. It’s about how I am willing to admit that you may not have been the best thing since sliced bread. Well, actually, it’s probably going to end up being entirely about food. ( Waffle about waffles? Yes, please! )

I think I’m okay. You were a dick. I mean, you helped me out with some paperwork, yes. But you also made me cry with harsh, needless and/or unfeeling comments. You are not the perfect person that I thought you were. You do not have to be my future.

I am, for the first time in memory, happy to be single. I realized that my destiny is mine. I don’t need to be your adoring, if high maintenance, girlfriend. And I don’t need the sweet, nerdy boyfriend. I don’t even want him right now.

What I do want, and this is going on the list, is to eat a waffle on a street named waffle. There just so happens to be a Waffle Drive in Michigan and I am totally going there. Alone. Without you, or her, or some as yet defined him.

I am less afraid now. I am less in need of affirmation. I am more Dru. And I totally deleted your profile on my xbox.

I think this will be the last blog for you, because I think I’m finally ready to stop writing about boys and girls and book characters. I’m ready to fill the world and my journals up with stories about me, who I am; not who I think I love.

I miss you, yes. But I miss you like I miss the pain in my teeth that the extraction fixed – you were familiar and now you’re gone. But I’m still alive.

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And I got new glasses. They’re Armani.

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Breaking Up is Shit. And you’re not helping

Let’s talk about what is appropriate and what isn’t.

Self-serving questions like “Did he cheat? Did he lose interest?” and violently selfish comments like “I don’t appreciate being sent on a hunt if y’all are still together.” are not okay. Even if we were sisters they would be inappropriate and unappreciated. But from vague acquaintances, it is wholly unacceptable.

Allow me to offer some tips for speaking to the recently forsaken:

Ask if the person is okay, before you ask anything else. Saying “I ask specific questions. I’m not like everyone else.” is not an excuse. It doesn’t mean you’re a good friend for asking what you’re thinking. It means that you’re more worried about the juicy details than you are about your alleged friend’s mental state. The first thing you should worry about is how they’re doing. And if you aren’t actually worried about that first, have the fucking decency to lie and make yourself look better and them feel better.

Don’t be flippant. Ever. Unless you’re offering to help hide the body. “Oh, did he cheat?” ‘Yes. With my gorram sister.’ Do you really want to be the douchebag on the other end of that conversation.

Offer condolences instead of asking questions. If we want to talk about it, we will. If we don’t, you’ll either have to live with your curiosity or head to our facebooks, twitter, YouTube or blog to read our pathetic emotional break downs, as they happen. Though, chances are, if you don’t know we split up a month after the fact and you were only testing us in the first place because “I’m bored! You and your boyfriend should come pick me up lol ;D!” then you’re not really a very good friend.

And no, it’s not just because you ask the “wrong” questions.

Show Me Your Teeth

I never had my wisdom teeth out.

Whether that was originally because I didn’t want the work done or my parents didn’t want to hurt me or pay for it, I have no clue. But over the years I have developed a fierce vendetta against having body parts removed.

I have no problems donating organs upon death. And no problems cutting my hair. But my gallbladder and appendix and, gorram it, my wisdom teeth are staying right where they are. At least, until they start making life more painful then pleasurable by causing constant pressure and contributing to a different tooth cracking. ( We’re specifically talking about wisdom teeth now – I don’t think that my appendix has been causing mouth troubles… )

I found out earlier this week that my insurance hadn’t run out yet and that I had through the end of the month to use it. I promptly made an appointment to have those two pesky teeth extracted in hopes of being able to eat without pain. I planned to bike home after since the teeth were so far dropped that it was a routine extraction. And therefore wouldn’t hurt. Because I’ve had teeth out before. So…yeah.

Whitney was somewhat less than impressed with this idea and offered me a ride. I realized that the only time I’ve ever had teeth out was my baby teeth and that they probably hurt a lot less.

I have all my teeth. And red hair.

Over the hours leading up to the ride to the dentist I talked with friends about their experiences and the told me how much it hurt. Matt’s comfort was an anecdote about his last tooth-pulling session, in which the Novocain didn’t work and he almost passed out. “It likely won’t hurt as bad as that. Just make sure you’re numb before they start.” :s very helpful.

I was totally shaking by the time we got to the dentist – I had been doing dishes right before we left, instead of playing video games; that’s how nervous I was – and we had to sit for like 20 minutes before I even went back. Then I sat for another 20 minutes. We’d been there for like an hour when I finally got the gel stuff that makes you look like a poor attempt at a walrus and then the Novocain.

I am the walrus.

The Novocain – which I’m sure isn’t actually Novocain but instead some sort of ultra-health-endangering/protecting alternative – actually hurt worse that the procedure. I made the crack that after 8 piercings I should be able to handle a FREAKING 9 INCH NEEDLE OF DEATH being rammed into the roof of my mouth. The dentist laughed. My mind rationalized that with a piercing I get something cool at the end, with numbness I just trick myself into hurting less than I should. Also that numbing yourself because the pain will be too great is likely folly since pain is there for a reason which you are obviously ignoring if you numb, likely putting yourself in danger. Stupid mind.

Between teeth I tweeted, txtd and generally tried not to panic.

After another 30 minutes of waiting – and this is why I always get confused when Americans say that socialized health would lead to long waits — sure, I didn’t have to wait to make an appointment to have my teeth ripped out, but I had to wait a good hour before anything happened; I never had to wait like that in England – the dentist popped back in the room and stabbed my mouth a bit to see if I could feel it, then locked his clamps ( of doom ) around my tooth and started working it like he was trying to loosen a particularly greasy-and-stuck engine part. When he moved on to the second tooth ( which required more not-Novocain ) he told me that most of the ripping and tearing sound I was hearing ( and likely, that strange, sweet, coppery taste at the back of my mouth ) were caused by his tools slipping. Because that is totally comforting and not blatantly a lie.

After maybe half an hour of pulling and tugging and slipping tools, my teeth came out. They were incredibly huge and left freaking massive holes in the back of my mouth that make it really, really difficult to eat. Especially crispy stuff. Which is only my favorite type of food. :(

Teeth! Teeth, te-te-teeth!

Happily though, my vain speculation that my face would look slimmer without #1 and #16 was correct and – once the swelling went down and I stopped looking like a chipmunk – I now sport a lighter looking face. Which is little consolation in the face of eating that is painfully improbable.

And that’s how to get your teeth ripped out. Or something.

Oh! I totally got to keep my teeth. I’m going to turn them into earrings for special occasions ^^

Sleep – A Scale

A while ago – back when I had an ambiguously defined female friend – I came up with this mostly arbitrary scale where -12% is uncomfortably awake as when taking a five hour energy shot. Jitters set in around -11%. For the positive side of the scale, anything from 0% – 50% is awake. 55% is the point when bed starts to sound like a good idea. 75% is when txts come out all jumbled. 90% is that weird layer between sleep and the waking world where one feels like one is floating. 100% is asleep. ~115% is REM sleep and >135% is a coma.

That’s pretty much it. I thought it was useful. I hope you find it so.

[ From May 01, 2011 @ 23:08 – My gosh, I have over 70 drafts. See? I’m thinking of you even when I don’t actually post anything. ]