My name is Peta, I live on the second floor.
I live at Camel Toe Tear Arse, more commonly referred to as Camelot Terrace. Yes, a standard 1970s brick apartment named after a 15th century castle. To this date no one has mistaken it for the real Camelot. Though, this does not deter me from drinking wine out of a goblet. Like, for real.
So, I live in an apartment. I'd like to feel a little more apart from the apartment block, although I'm not sure I'm meant to. Instead I am a part of it. The fact that I constantly hear the conjoined residents makes me a part of it. Yes, every utterance, every movement, every shit 90s song, every thing. You get used to it. I mean, they must be able to hear me too, right? Occasionally I pretend I am in cell block H, dragging my tin cup along the window bars whilst howling at the moon. Of course in the daytime I preoccupy myself with out-of-tune banjo twanging and shooting my saliva at a rusted spittoon. Swish! Nothin but tin! Yep, that's apartment living. You won't find that in the real estate guide.
So here is a snapshot of an evening in Camel Toe Tear Arse. As soon as I have rammed a boulder into number 18's mouth, I head to bed. It's just a little ritual I have to shut up her resounding nasal tone and constant swearing at her spouse. I usually remove the boulder in the morning. First things first.
12.35am; a domestic wafts through the air. She wants a divorce, he's angry. I don't care. Not sure what number. It's definitely not 18. Boulder.
2.14am; loudest, most violent vomiting session I have ever heard. They turn on taps to drown it out. Unsuccessful.
4.24am; Number 7 still think it's schoolies week. Dicks.
5.10am; Baby crying like a starter motor.
6.47am; swarm of cyclists yelling boring work conversations.
7.08am; Dammit, it's leaf blower Wednesday.
7.13am; I'm leaving the boulder in number 18's mouth.
By this time I end up dragging my body out of bed and going for a walk. I'm up so I might as well. When I say 'up', I don't mean mentally or even physically. There's usually a grey area you encounter when you've woken up and you haven't quite re-entered your body after dream o'clock. I have my own zombie walk going on until I realise that the long, dangly things on my sides are actually my arms, and I can operate them. I am the body corporate.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Feeling Lift Out
It's a traveling cone of silence. In fact there seems to be a certain code of silence applied to frequenting a lift, like some kind of universal law or 10th commandment. Thou shalt not speak in lift.
How fabulous we have become at ignoring humans approximately 17 centimetres away, almost to the point of denying their existence. And in a way, we deny our own. With the sudden spatial awareness in a lift, we recede into our invisible armour. If there are several lift traveling strangers it is not so bad. The more the better, as it it is far easier to blend into the human camouflage with joyous anonymity.
BUT, if you find yourself in a lift with just one other person, you are vulnerable and exposed like a horrible 'undies' dream. And so are they. Yes, that cologne masking BO waft is drifting from them. Or is it BO masking cologne? Not sure, you'd think they'd cancel each other out. With your senses heightened in confined spaces you note the sound of their breathing. As long as you cannot feel their breath on the back of your neck, you're ok. Generally this shouldn't happen since each body ends up in far corners of the lift, like opponents in a boxing ring. Boxers make eye contact though, that's part of the psych game. This is a definite 'no' in the traveling cone of silence. Since both of you politely pretend the other does not exist, eye contact cannot be established. It's quite primal, really. So what do we do, we look up at the passing floor numbers, as though it's the most fascinating thing we've ever seen in our lives. We're transfixed like zombies, hypnotised by numbers, too afraid of accidental sideways glances.
Then 'DING,' immediate relief, awkward tension laxative effect. We exit and carry on like it was a completely normal experience.
Such is the business/workplace lift scenario. There are many different lifts though. The shopping centre lift experience is completely different, not cones of silence, but cramped cubes of gross. They're like tins of obnoxious sardines with prams and skateboards. You cannot eavesdrop in a shopping centre lift, people rudely involve you in their conversations. You are subject to listen, as you are to the sound of a cheap lawn mower at 7am on a Saturday morning. And more often than not, I'd choose lawn mower conversation. So I tune into my inner conversation.
"Ok, pram wheel in my shin, like through the bone.. Ah, hurry up. Are we still on level 1? Why aren't we moving. That kid has pressed the button like 17 times, like it's going to get us there faster. Maybe it's morse code, what's he trying to say? Perhaps we'll be transported through time. Wait, ok, level 2. C'mon people, get out, get in. Shit, whose holding the doors for the tortoise with the trolley. Totes should've taken the stairs. I could have scaled the building by now. Ok, level 3, woohoo. Dodge the baby vomit and we're through"
There is actually one last lift type to mention, 'the pre 90s lift'. This one is for all the risk takers out there, the adrenaline junkies. "Line up to experience a ride like no other, full of death drops, haunted creaks, and exhilarating sudden stops in mid air." Yep, it's a buzz, you guys. The is a 70s lift in my apartment block. It makes me feel alive. I should charge admission since that is probably the only way I can afford my Body Corporate fees this month. Note to self; side business project, Bungee rectangle adventures.
dogs x
How fabulous we have become at ignoring humans approximately 17 centimetres away, almost to the point of denying their existence. And in a way, we deny our own. With the sudden spatial awareness in a lift, we recede into our invisible armour. If there are several lift traveling strangers it is not so bad. The more the better, as it it is far easier to blend into the human camouflage with joyous anonymity.
BUT, if you find yourself in a lift with just one other person, you are vulnerable and exposed like a horrible 'undies' dream. And so are they. Yes, that cologne masking BO waft is drifting from them. Or is it BO masking cologne? Not sure, you'd think they'd cancel each other out. With your senses heightened in confined spaces you note the sound of their breathing. As long as you cannot feel their breath on the back of your neck, you're ok. Generally this shouldn't happen since each body ends up in far corners of the lift, like opponents in a boxing ring. Boxers make eye contact though, that's part of the psych game. This is a definite 'no' in the traveling cone of silence. Since both of you politely pretend the other does not exist, eye contact cannot be established. It's quite primal, really. So what do we do, we look up at the passing floor numbers, as though it's the most fascinating thing we've ever seen in our lives. We're transfixed like zombies, hypnotised by numbers, too afraid of accidental sideways glances.
Then 'DING,' immediate relief, awkward tension laxative effect. We exit and carry on like it was a completely normal experience.
Such is the business/workplace lift scenario. There are many different lifts though. The shopping centre lift experience is completely different, not cones of silence, but cramped cubes of gross. They're like tins of obnoxious sardines with prams and skateboards. You cannot eavesdrop in a shopping centre lift, people rudely involve you in their conversations. You are subject to listen, as you are to the sound of a cheap lawn mower at 7am on a Saturday morning. And more often than not, I'd choose lawn mower conversation. So I tune into my inner conversation.
"Ok, pram wheel in my shin, like through the bone.. Ah, hurry up. Are we still on level 1? Why aren't we moving. That kid has pressed the button like 17 times, like it's going to get us there faster. Maybe it's morse code, what's he trying to say? Perhaps we'll be transported through time. Wait, ok, level 2. C'mon people, get out, get in. Shit, whose holding the doors for the tortoise with the trolley. Totes should've taken the stairs. I could have scaled the building by now. Ok, level 3, woohoo. Dodge the baby vomit and we're through"
There is actually one last lift type to mention, 'the pre 90s lift'. This one is for all the risk takers out there, the adrenaline junkies. "Line up to experience a ride like no other, full of death drops, haunted creaks, and exhilarating sudden stops in mid air." Yep, it's a buzz, you guys. The is a 70s lift in my apartment block. It makes me feel alive. I should charge admission since that is probably the only way I can afford my Body Corporate fees this month. Note to self; side business project, Bungee rectangle adventures.
dogs x
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Water
I have a bottle of water with 'Pure Ocean' on the label. Oddly enough, the water is not salty. I'm guessing it has not been scooped up from the ocean after all. This is perhaps a good thing. Not too keen to get off my chops on bottled seawater, aye. So, really, it's not even impure ocean, it's just not ocean at all. And underneath the 'Pure Ocean' label it reads, 'Let's drink to life!' I've never seen anyone toast anything with bottles of water. Cheers to life, insert plastic chink here. What about cheers to plastic pollution.
I recall a time, many moons ago, when bottled water was not a thing. How did people survive? Humans must have been more like camels back then. My lumps, my lumps, my lovely lady lumps.....for storing water. I predict that bottled water is on the way out. Soon people will be far too busy to even drink water. Everyone will be walking around with drips.
I recall a time, many moons ago, when bottled water was not a thing. How did people survive? Humans must have been more like camels back then. My lumps, my lumps, my lovely lady lumps.....for storing water. I predict that bottled water is on the way out. Soon people will be far too busy to even drink water. Everyone will be walking around with drips.
Friday, February 10, 2012
speak easy - part 2
OMG, I play the piano too!
The word describing what I do for a living is, 'pianist'. I am not so great at pronouncing this, and it can often sound like I am calling myself a penis. Just quietly, I'm sure I'd make a lot of money if I had a career as a penis. Meanwhile, I recall my Granny telling me I wouldn't make a good prostitute when I was in my teen years. I'm still scarred from her comments. For a start, is it even a good thing or a bad thing? She is a good Granny, must point that one out. Recently she watched a show about how to be a model and noted that you were meant to point your pelvis to the sky. She did this for awhile and looked ridiculous, yet incredibly content with herself. Perhaps she needed to pout and frown some more, and maybe not be 85. Minor detail.
Anyway, I am not a penis, let's face fact. When I say 'pianist', I emphasise the 'a', which either makes me sound foreign or slow. And for your information, I am both of those things. I generally feel like a loser if I have to tell people I am a pianist but I usually don't have to, particularly if I am playing a gig. Statingtheobvious.com.au/hi.
For some reason people feel the need to tell me that they play piano too, or learnt at some stage, like we share some kind of life bond now. I am unaware of this bond, and wouldn't even go as far as to call it a common thread. But of course, feel free to shower me with endless stories of songs you were forced to learn at age 12. We don't have anything in common. I would skim rocks for a living if I could but I play the piano. I am married to a piano and we spend Valentines days together. We make music, what can I say. So see, people will not go so far as to say that they are married to a piano. Touche.
I have a pretend interested face I used to do when people told me they played the piano, but my acting skills are not so great now. I need a stunt double to pretend care about the confronting past childhood pianists. Meanwhile, I don't tell accountants that I used to do sums in primary school. It's not a thing.
So mentioning you play the piano is one thing, but then actually insisting upon playing the piano for me, or better still, my own keyboard, is another thing. We're not round the camp fire, dudes, and you're not 12 anymore. If you were I'd wonder why your bourbon breath was looming around my nostril hairs. Smells like burning. Also, when I visit the doctor I do not pop in on their surgery and insist I have a go because once I played 'Operation' in the 80s. Sheesh. Incidentally, my doctor doesn't perform surgery from a bar. Yes, this means less bourbon breath, in some cases.
Just one last thing....I'm glad you learnt piano, I'm glad you have a keyboard, I'm glad you have a job, I'm glad you have a car and a giant old grandfather clock necklace. Whatever makes you tick. I am very grateful for the opportunity I have to play the piano. You cannot force yourself upon the keys though, as they do not force themselves upon you. You must love them through your finger tips, as gross and bourbon breath as that may sound. Your piano at home may be filled with dusty doilies, melted candles and antique cat ornaments. That is fine. BUT, whatever you do, do not ever place your drink or any of the above on my keyboard. Respect the keys. We all have pianist envy.
The word describing what I do for a living is, 'pianist'. I am not so great at pronouncing this, and it can often sound like I am calling myself a penis. Just quietly, I'm sure I'd make a lot of money if I had a career as a penis. Meanwhile, I recall my Granny telling me I wouldn't make a good prostitute when I was in my teen years. I'm still scarred from her comments. For a start, is it even a good thing or a bad thing? She is a good Granny, must point that one out. Recently she watched a show about how to be a model and noted that you were meant to point your pelvis to the sky. She did this for awhile and looked ridiculous, yet incredibly content with herself. Perhaps she needed to pout and frown some more, and maybe not be 85. Minor detail.
Anyway, I am not a penis, let's face fact. When I say 'pianist', I emphasise the 'a', which either makes me sound foreign or slow. And for your information, I am both of those things. I generally feel like a loser if I have to tell people I am a pianist but I usually don't have to, particularly if I am playing a gig. Statingtheobvious.com.au/hi.
For some reason people feel the need to tell me that they play piano too, or learnt at some stage, like we share some kind of life bond now. I am unaware of this bond, and wouldn't even go as far as to call it a common thread. But of course, feel free to shower me with endless stories of songs you were forced to learn at age 12. We don't have anything in common. I would skim rocks for a living if I could but I play the piano. I am married to a piano and we spend Valentines days together. We make music, what can I say. So see, people will not go so far as to say that they are married to a piano. Touche.
I have a pretend interested face I used to do when people told me they played the piano, but my acting skills are not so great now. I need a stunt double to pretend care about the confronting past childhood pianists. Meanwhile, I don't tell accountants that I used to do sums in primary school. It's not a thing.
So mentioning you play the piano is one thing, but then actually insisting upon playing the piano for me, or better still, my own keyboard, is another thing. We're not round the camp fire, dudes, and you're not 12 anymore. If you were I'd wonder why your bourbon breath was looming around my nostril hairs. Smells like burning. Also, when I visit the doctor I do not pop in on their surgery and insist I have a go because once I played 'Operation' in the 80s. Sheesh. Incidentally, my doctor doesn't perform surgery from a bar. Yes, this means less bourbon breath, in some cases.
Just one last thing....I'm glad you learnt piano, I'm glad you have a keyboard, I'm glad you have a job, I'm glad you have a car and a giant old grandfather clock necklace. Whatever makes you tick. I am very grateful for the opportunity I have to play the piano. You cannot force yourself upon the keys though, as they do not force themselves upon you. You must love them through your finger tips, as gross and bourbon breath as that may sound. Your piano at home may be filled with dusty doilies, melted candles and antique cat ornaments. That is fine. BUT, whatever you do, do not ever place your drink or any of the above on my keyboard. Respect the keys. We all have pianist envy.
speak easy - part 1
say my name say my name
I think Prince had the right idea, changing his name to a symbol. I'd like my name to be a chord. Bbsus13 is a fave of mine. Full of texture, yet unresolved. What's a name? My name is actually incredibly easy to pronounce and to spell but for some reason it is coated in this awkward layer of difficulty. Introducing myself becomes a ridiculous game of unnecessary charades. 2 syllables, sounds like, what the hell is wrong with you? It's like teaching a dog the alphabet. Pe-ta. I'll even move your lips, your entire jaw, while you just focus on pushing the tones out. that's all you have to do.
Once I have delivered my name it seems to go through some kind of invisible sound filter to come out as Tina, Keita, Nina, Pippa or Slobodan Milosevic. I'm cool with the last one. So then I have to spell it but that seems to translate as 'Pet' with an 'a' attached. By now, if I still happen to give a shit, if I have already determined whether or not this person will feature highly in my life movie, I start charades. Ok, so it's like that bread, pita bread, which is far less popular than it was in the 80s and has now been replaced by the wrap. So it's also like the organisation, PETA, which people also seem ignorant to.
If the recipient ever finally repeats the correct name back to me a number of responses are likely to follow. First of all, no, I am not a boy, which I thought was quite evident from my enormous jugs and child bearing hips. I'm even wearing a corset to emphasise the fact. Yes, I am aware that it is a boys' name, though I am delighted to be reminded constantly.
Others enquire where the name comes from, as though I christened myself with it after returning from the Planet, Foodakaka Zion. Sure.
Occasionally people tell me that they know another person called Peta, quietly letting me know that I'm not the only one, all the while wondering about the magical 'Peta' club we're all part of. Incidentally we all meet weekly for 10 seconds to head butt lily pads.
Perhaps the problem is me. Of course, it usually is. This morning I introduced myself to Mike. Easy. I had to spell my name, the usual. He looked at me blankly before eventually saying, 'Is that right, my cousin is called Peta'. I must really just slur the shit out of my name or something. In fact, right now, when this barman asked me what I do for work, he thought I said, 'magician' instead of 'musician'. Yes, I pulled a rabbit out of a hat and it punched him in the face. So it is me, after all.
You see, the problem is that none of the people in my life movie actually call me Peta. And if they do, either the 't' is a lazy 'd', or I'm pretty sure I'm in trouble. I am more commonly Pete, Petey, Pedi, P. Diddy, or P. Dizzle, for unknown reasons. You may be able to see why I wanted to change my name to, 'The', it's a frequently used word. I've never been a label, why should I be a name? But everything has a name, some kind of humanly recognisable yet restricting identity.
Hello, I'm Tina, the magician!
I think Prince had the right idea, changing his name to a symbol. I'd like my name to be a chord. Bbsus13 is a fave of mine. Full of texture, yet unresolved. What's a name? My name is actually incredibly easy to pronounce and to spell but for some reason it is coated in this awkward layer of difficulty. Introducing myself becomes a ridiculous game of unnecessary charades. 2 syllables, sounds like, what the hell is wrong with you? It's like teaching a dog the alphabet. Pe-ta. I'll even move your lips, your entire jaw, while you just focus on pushing the tones out. that's all you have to do.
Once I have delivered my name it seems to go through some kind of invisible sound filter to come out as Tina, Keita, Nina, Pippa or Slobodan Milosevic. I'm cool with the last one. So then I have to spell it but that seems to translate as 'Pet' with an 'a' attached. By now, if I still happen to give a shit, if I have already determined whether or not this person will feature highly in my life movie, I start charades. Ok, so it's like that bread, pita bread, which is far less popular than it was in the 80s and has now been replaced by the wrap. So it's also like the organisation, PETA, which people also seem ignorant to.
If the recipient ever finally repeats the correct name back to me a number of responses are likely to follow. First of all, no, I am not a boy, which I thought was quite evident from my enormous jugs and child bearing hips. I'm even wearing a corset to emphasise the fact. Yes, I am aware that it is a boys' name, though I am delighted to be reminded constantly.
Others enquire where the name comes from, as though I christened myself with it after returning from the Planet, Foodakaka Zion. Sure.
Occasionally people tell me that they know another person called Peta, quietly letting me know that I'm not the only one, all the while wondering about the magical 'Peta' club we're all part of. Incidentally we all meet weekly for 10 seconds to head butt lily pads.
Perhaps the problem is me. Of course, it usually is. This morning I introduced myself to Mike. Easy. I had to spell my name, the usual. He looked at me blankly before eventually saying, 'Is that right, my cousin is called Peta'. I must really just slur the shit out of my name or something. In fact, right now, when this barman asked me what I do for work, he thought I said, 'magician' instead of 'musician'. Yes, I pulled a rabbit out of a hat and it punched him in the face. So it is me, after all.
You see, the problem is that none of the people in my life movie actually call me Peta. And if they do, either the 't' is a lazy 'd', or I'm pretty sure I'm in trouble. I am more commonly Pete, Petey, Pedi, P. Diddy, or P. Dizzle, for unknown reasons. You may be able to see why I wanted to change my name to, 'The', it's a frequently used word. I've never been a label, why should I be a name? But everything has a name, some kind of humanly recognisable yet restricting identity.
Hello, I'm Tina, the magician!
Thursday, February 2, 2012
No rest for the witted
It's 6.05am. Who really cares. Time is an illusion apparently. I've been awake since 3am. It is a regular occurrence, this self imposed jet lag state. What better drug is there than sleep deprivation, my dear stoning friends of the past? I should wear leopard print in the jungle, in hope of being hit by a tranquilizer dart. Anything for sleep.
So why does this happen? Well, it is part of a developed human condition called over-thinking. Before you know it you end up booby trapping yourself with that ridiculous brain thingy. And then you're stuck in some kind of retarded mental loop you created. Waking up at 3am is not the problem. Initially there is a glimmer of hope that you may fade back to sleep, to the land where the soul takes a vacation from the conscious mind and body. But that glimmer of hope becomes a thought and that thought becomes another thought and another thought. Before you are even aware you are being dumped upon by your own thought avalanche. And what's more, it's a hollow avalanche. The thoughts are empty, redundant.
'Yeah, toast is pretty great. hang on, what is the toaster set to? Yeah, 4, I like it on 4, just the right amount of crispness. There are 3 avocados in the fridge. Is the toaster off at the wall? Not sure, it wouldn't matter anyway. I mean, I'm not about to stick a knife in there, but if I did what would happen? No, I know what will happen. Of course, now I wanna try it though, like when you're near a cliff face and you know you could just jump over the edge. When was I last on a cliff face? Maybe that was in a movie and not me. Oh wait, I'm thinking of 'The Fugitive'. That wasn't a cliff though. There is no way he would've survived that. Maybe I could do stunts. Nope, arms are too long. I could be a stunt person for spaghetti, but I don't think there are any scripts with spaghetti as a character. Oh, I'll write one. Man, I'm tired. 3.01am.'
It's all down hill from there, the thought avalanche gains momentum. It's a one-man show of shoulda-coulda-wouldas. You are the director of a paranoid paradise. Ah, way too many metaphors. Take that! So when it gets to 6.05am you realise that you are not getting back to sleep. In fact for the last hour you mostly thought about trying to fall back to sleep, and that is precisely why you could get to sleep. The more you think of sleep the less you will, because to sleep requires enough moments of unthinking.
Try different sleeping positions, that might help. It doesn't, not while your mind is busy inventing pretend problems to fix. And you end up looking like a pig on a mattress spit, sprawled across dishevelled bed sheets, rotating every 5 minutes.
Try counting sheep. Really? Has anyone, aside from Burt and Ernie, ever done that? I've actually tried it and all I can think about is how ridiculous it is, but then I wonder if they are muppet sheep or real sheep. Then I reassess and conclude that I would be a below average sheep dog.
Try drinking some warm milk. Oh great, so I actually have to get out of bed and heat up milk for this, or is there some giant warm milk-filled teet in the sky that gets lowered on the hour. Hmm.
Ok, ok, I'm getting up. Hazy days.
So why does this happen? Well, it is part of a developed human condition called over-thinking. Before you know it you end up booby trapping yourself with that ridiculous brain thingy. And then you're stuck in some kind of retarded mental loop you created. Waking up at 3am is not the problem. Initially there is a glimmer of hope that you may fade back to sleep, to the land where the soul takes a vacation from the conscious mind and body. But that glimmer of hope becomes a thought and that thought becomes another thought and another thought. Before you are even aware you are being dumped upon by your own thought avalanche. And what's more, it's a hollow avalanche. The thoughts are empty, redundant.
'Yeah, toast is pretty great. hang on, what is the toaster set to? Yeah, 4, I like it on 4, just the right amount of crispness. There are 3 avocados in the fridge. Is the toaster off at the wall? Not sure, it wouldn't matter anyway. I mean, I'm not about to stick a knife in there, but if I did what would happen? No, I know what will happen. Of course, now I wanna try it though, like when you're near a cliff face and you know you could just jump over the edge. When was I last on a cliff face? Maybe that was in a movie and not me. Oh wait, I'm thinking of 'The Fugitive'. That wasn't a cliff though. There is no way he would've survived that. Maybe I could do stunts. Nope, arms are too long. I could be a stunt person for spaghetti, but I don't think there are any scripts with spaghetti as a character. Oh, I'll write one. Man, I'm tired. 3.01am.'
It's all down hill from there, the thought avalanche gains momentum. It's a one-man show of shoulda-coulda-wouldas. You are the director of a paranoid paradise. Ah, way too many metaphors. Take that! So when it gets to 6.05am you realise that you are not getting back to sleep. In fact for the last hour you mostly thought about trying to fall back to sleep, and that is precisely why you could get to sleep. The more you think of sleep the less you will, because to sleep requires enough moments of unthinking.
Try different sleeping positions, that might help. It doesn't, not while your mind is busy inventing pretend problems to fix. And you end up looking like a pig on a mattress spit, sprawled across dishevelled bed sheets, rotating every 5 minutes.
Try counting sheep. Really? Has anyone, aside from Burt and Ernie, ever done that? I've actually tried it and all I can think about is how ridiculous it is, but then I wonder if they are muppet sheep or real sheep. Then I reassess and conclude that I would be a below average sheep dog.
Try drinking some warm milk. Oh great, so I actually have to get out of bed and heat up milk for this, or is there some giant warm milk-filled teet in the sky that gets lowered on the hour. Hmm.
Ok, ok, I'm getting up. Hazy days.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Awmiguts
Pronounced 'awww, me guts!'
For some time I have had a condition I have termed 'awmiguts', meaning lower abdominal pain in ancient hebrew spelling mistakes. An abdominal x-ray revealed that I will not be wearing that x-ray nightie out on the town. Honestly, the material was so giant that if there was a slight breeze I would've sailed off into the beyond. I'm not sure where the beyond is, but I think it's just past yonder.
So now I am about to embark upon a colonial era, emphasis on the colon. In preparation for a colonoscopy 2 days are spent eating processed foods lacking fibre. Let's just say I've been cutting sick on the ham sandwiches, dudes. Let's also say, they aren't going anywhere till day 3, the day before the colonial inquest. How does Inspector Rex do it? Perhaps I should not take diet tips from a German Shepherd. I've also rediscovered boiled eggs and soldiers. Who ever decided to call slithers of egg dipped toast, soldiers? I'm just saying that I wouldn't like my chances leading an army of frail eggy bread into battle, even if my face was painted half blue and white. Although, I fail to consider my enemy. If it were mayonnaise covered croutons I might have a chance.
By day 3 of colon prep my stomach was the battlefield. Ham sandwiches, eggs and soldiers all stabbing and shooting their way through leading up to the final atomic explosion. In the meantime I made some extra money hiring my gut out as a cement mixer. Day 3 only consisted of breakfast, low fibre breakfast. This was followed by a day of "clear" fluids, so without reading ahead I downed some vodka shots, several martinis and some metho on the rocks. Of course I didn't, that would've been adding fuel to the belly fire. One of the things on my list of "clear" fluids was a stock cube in boiling water. Can't say I've ever craved that recipe, but I'll keep it in mind next time I open an orphanage in pre-Industrial Revolution London. I chose to indulge in the lemonade ice block, which reminded me of when I was 5, and I'm sure I slurped it in a similar way. I think the ice block is one of those foods you're just never going to look cool eating, unless you're a cartoon dog, of course. It's just hard work, tracking melting edges, saving lone drips with your tongue, then navigating the small icebergs around the stick. Not to mention potential "cold" headaches from prolonged teeth - ice contact. It's more like an imitation of a ventriloquist with lock jaw.
So by 5pm I had to start the colon clearing solution, but I like to call it 'Commence ham sandwich exodus at 17.00 hours'. (Insert loud 90s computer typing noise, like from JAG) Really, who watches JAG? Maybe I mean the show, '24'. Aargh, I don't know, one where they do military/spy typing noises. The 'dun dun' from 'Law and Order' will do though.
A number of hours later my body had a clearance sale. Everything must go!! The gastroenterologist said it would be like turning a tap on, but I didn't realise taps were in agony every time I turned them on. Although my colon was surely sparkling by now, I was incredibly faint. I was out of artillery.
The Colonoscopy 10.00 hours (dun dun)
Part of the admission process includes being asked if you have dentures 5 times. It's like the nurses want me to have dentures. I have wind-up teeth, will that shut them up. I'm also apparently underweight but I don't know who decides these things. You would be underweight too, if your insides were now on your outside. Instant stick figure. So Karen takes me to get changed into another tent nightie that Fraulein Maria made from the curtains, and even better, undies made of a material you wouldn't even pack your fish'n'chips in. Thanks, Karen, I'll be out on the catwalk shortly. At least I had a cool wristband, I wonder what festivals that will get me into. Eventually they wheel my bed into the surgery room. I could've walked, guys. Legs are fine. It was a rush though, like being on an episode of 'Scrubs', but with no hot people.
The anesthetist was unable to find a vein due to my stick figure diet the day before. Hello, I'm a pin cushion. Just ram in in there, toots. Maybe their fluorescent blue lights were on that day. Awkward! Before I knew it tubes filled my nose and banana flavoured anesthetic filled my mouth. Forgot I was having an endoscopy too. In no time I was having cigars with lemurs in Madagascar. They were fun. I woke up in another room next to another non-cast member from 'Scrubs'. Awmiguts! What did they do to me? Who cares, tea and sandwiches afterwards, I'm anyone's really.
I should get the results next week to see which uni I can get into. YES!
By day 3 of colon prep my stomach was the battlefield. Ham sandwiches, eggs and soldiers all stabbing and shooting their way through leading up to the final atomic explosion. In the meantime I made some extra money hiring my gut out as a cement mixer. Day 3 only consisted of breakfast, low fibre breakfast. This was followed by a day of "clear" fluids, so without reading ahead I downed some vodka shots, several martinis and some metho on the rocks. Of course I didn't, that would've been adding fuel to the belly fire. One of the things on my list of "clear" fluids was a stock cube in boiling water. Can't say I've ever craved that recipe, but I'll keep it in mind next time I open an orphanage in pre-Industrial Revolution London. I chose to indulge in the lemonade ice block, which reminded me of when I was 5, and I'm sure I slurped it in a similar way. I think the ice block is one of those foods you're just never going to look cool eating, unless you're a cartoon dog, of course. It's just hard work, tracking melting edges, saving lone drips with your tongue, then navigating the small icebergs around the stick. Not to mention potential "cold" headaches from prolonged teeth - ice contact. It's more like an imitation of a ventriloquist with lock jaw.
So by 5pm I had to start the colon clearing solution, but I like to call it 'Commence ham sandwich exodus at 17.00 hours'. (Insert loud 90s computer typing noise, like from JAG) Really, who watches JAG? Maybe I mean the show, '24'. Aargh, I don't know, one where they do military/spy typing noises. The 'dun dun' from 'Law and Order' will do though.
A number of hours later my body had a clearance sale. Everything must go!! The gastroenterologist said it would be like turning a tap on, but I didn't realise taps were in agony every time I turned them on. Although my colon was surely sparkling by now, I was incredibly faint. I was out of artillery.
The Colonoscopy 10.00 hours (dun dun)
Part of the admission process includes being asked if you have dentures 5 times. It's like the nurses want me to have dentures. I have wind-up teeth, will that shut them up. I'm also apparently underweight but I don't know who decides these things. You would be underweight too, if your insides were now on your outside. Instant stick figure. So Karen takes me to get changed into another tent nightie that Fraulein Maria made from the curtains, and even better, undies made of a material you wouldn't even pack your fish'n'chips in. Thanks, Karen, I'll be out on the catwalk shortly. At least I had a cool wristband, I wonder what festivals that will get me into. Eventually they wheel my bed into the surgery room. I could've walked, guys. Legs are fine. It was a rush though, like being on an episode of 'Scrubs', but with no hot people.
The anesthetist was unable to find a vein due to my stick figure diet the day before. Hello, I'm a pin cushion. Just ram in in there, toots. Maybe their fluorescent blue lights were on that day. Awkward! Before I knew it tubes filled my nose and banana flavoured anesthetic filled my mouth. Forgot I was having an endoscopy too. In no time I was having cigars with lemurs in Madagascar. They were fun. I woke up in another room next to another non-cast member from 'Scrubs'. Awmiguts! What did they do to me? Who cares, tea and sandwiches afterwards, I'm anyone's really.
I should get the results next week to see which uni I can get into. YES!
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