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.

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!

Ageing Greys Fully

I've always been a slow mover. My dad once said that watching me was like watching a movie in slow motion. At least he thought I had potential to be on the big screen. Perhaps not. Perhaps I am so slow that I am actually moving backwards. I am Benjamin Button. I only just got my ears pierced, so that must make me at least 12 now. Even the 12 year olds make me feel self conscious. I mean, my pockets don't hang lower than my jeans shorts yet. Difficult for pick-pocketing. Denim undies can't be good in the long term, people.
I wear my sister's hand-me-downs and she is younger than me. It never bothered me.
I am at an age now, when other people my age start commenting on the fact that they are getting old. I feel like I was just born. Yup, I'm currently washing off placenta remnants. You don't see me complaining about my youth. If people are thinking they're getting old in their 30s, what are they going to think when they are 50? Maybe they'll be dead by then because they've been thinking that they're old for 20 years.
I happened to catch 'Sesame Street' the other day. Closet fan, really. I think the only reason people have children is so they can keep watching 'Sesame Street.' Since I'm 12, I don't care. Anyway, the adult cast seems to still be the same, and they don't look that different from 25 years ago. The muppets seem to have changed more. I wonder why. Gordon, Maria, Luis, Bob, they don't seem to have aged at all. So, Maria works in a fix-it shop which never gets customers, maybe the odd non paying muppet with a broken toaster, even though they never seem to eat toast. Well, Cookie Monster eats rice cakes disguised as cookies. I can't say I've ever seen Telly hoe into a jaffal with Prairie Don, though. Surely the 'Fix-it Shop' has been unprofitable and highly stressful over the years as a result, but no. They mustn't lease from Westfield. Maria looks very un 61 for a 61 year old. What is it then? Who put the 'up' into 'grown-up'? Does singing songs around a fake street light keep you looking young? Maybe she's born with it. Why doesn't 'Oil of Olay' sell singing songs in public with muppets to reduce the signs of ageing? Meanwhile, why did they change their name from 'Oil of Ulan'? I guess Ulan ran out of oil. Where is Olay anyway? Too many questions. I do have an answer, though. I am slow. It's ok. I only now feel that I am living how I should've 10 years ago. Back to the future with immature. That's it.

dogs and petrol x

I saw a shooting star on my drive home tonight. I think it was. Well, either that or I went through a red light, or I time traveled back to the 80s. I have a knack for that. I saw a shooting star once when I was 11, on Christmas night. My Dad told me it meant things in my life were changing. Aren't they always changing? Maybe just not so drastically. I couldn't help but wonder if the dog enjoyed Christmas, because I didn't. I should have since I received a mountain bike and a Sega Master System that day. So in. Well, it was especially hot and I drank too much wine, which at 11, wasn't much wine. I'd trade presents for presence, even at 11. I just need to check myself in the mirror to see if I did time travel back to 11. Nope, lookin' good, Rizz.

My Best Friends' Wedding (minus Julia Roberts' Mouth)

Since performing at a number of weddings I developed some kind of immunity to their supposed ‘love infections’. I’m usually part of a musical backdrop to the cocktail swilling, the entrée guzzling, and the interpretive limb flailing white people call ‘dancing’. The brides and grooms all start looking the same, the guests all seem like reused extras from ‘The Truman Show’, and the speeches are less enlightening than the nutritional info on a cereal box. I should spend my set breaks pretending I have rabies, frothing at the mouth on champagne, just to keep it real for myself. I’m not complaining though, I would rather play music than chitter chatter with wind-up teeth attached to humans.

This year has been the first year of my adult life that I have been invited as a non-musical guest to a couple of weddings. Yes, a ‘Truman Show’ extra. It’s like jury duty. My wedding immunity has been a challenge as I have struggled to find the ‘special’ in the special day without feeling the blandness of ‘Special K’. Fibre.

Meanwhile, how many more times can you witness a bouquet toss to ‘All the single ladies’? Why not Van Halen’s ‘Jump’? I have never been interested in catching the bouquet. Even if someone threw it directly to me I would respond like ‘Santa’s Little Helper’ to the Frisbee. It would just bounce right off-of my face. The bride might as well be throwing a kilo of mackerel guts over her shoulder.

Yesterday was the first time in my adult life that I have actually been part of a bridal party. I keep saying ‘adult life’ because it implies that I cannot play in the dirt in my good clothes. Oh, how the tables have turned. I am typically not bridesmaid material, but thanks to Kate Mackie and Larry, and Kristen Wiig, we made it through. Let’s just say, I’m pretty sure the brides knew of my incompetence well beforehand. Ah, the impractical non-organising obstacle that I am with lines like, ‘Am I more in your way like this?’

I didn’t realize that lacing up dresses was a thing so I pretended the lace was horse reigns. PS don’t do this. The bride is not interested in being ridden before the ceremony, read in a David Attenborough voice. Sorry, Larry. Really though, I never knew putting bridal gowns on people would be like trying to shove a snake back into its shed skin. Get in there already. And once I attached the catheters they were right to go.

Thanks to a lack of bridezillaness, the fact that it rained right on cue for the ceremony was not an issue. Perhaps this was in the hope for a gay rainbow to follow, or Stefans. 80s. Instead of setting up the slip ‘n’ slide down the aisle we walked in, each with a kilo of mackerel guts flowers.

Meanwhile, thanks to fab unfake hair and make-up people, I didn’t look like Heath Ledger as the joker.

Hi, I don’t know if it was the mackerel guts talking but my wedding immunity weakened. Was I finally starting to understand this thing, like a real ‘Truman Show’ extra? Light rain, favourite faces, and love. There it is, bang! I said the 'L' word. I was Liz Lemon when she cried out of her mouth. So, there I was in Kate Mackie and Larry’s vision, they included me. I think I get it now, you guys. It actually was a special day, despite the fact that Kate Mackie wouldn’t fulfill Larry’s request for me to read Salt ‘n’Peppa’s ‘Shoop’ at the ceremony. So, almost perfect, but I went to sleep smiling. It must have been the lolly teeth,

Dogs and petrol xxx

13/10/eleventy

I just bought nail polish remover that says, 'Be Yourself' on the label. Gee, thanks for reminding me, nail polish remover. All this time I was trying to be a giant old carpet stain. Now I can just be myself. FINALLY! And it only took a small bottle of chemicals to get the message across. (Champagne does this too.)
Nail polish colours sure do have some odd names. I just realised that the colour I bought is called, 'Coral Brown.' Coral that is brown is most likely to be dead. Comforting. Well, it doesn't smell like dead coral. The actual colour does not look like brown coral anyway. I mean, I would have called it 'Liver spots Pearl'.

So I ended up in the shopping centre vortex of death because I needed a dress for my friend, Jenny Anderson's wedding. Actually, I should say that I still need one. It took me 3.5 hours to not find a dress. Oh my dog, what am I to do? Well, at least I bought nail polish. I can just be myself.

Meanwhile, I just tried the 'Coral Brown', and it looks exactly like my skin colour. Yeah, I'm dead coral. So, it pretty much looks like I don't have toe nails at all. I have toes with skin where the nail is meant to be. Indubitably freaky. And it seems that this does not make up for the fact that I do not have a wedding dress. These are unfortunate times, people, unfortunate times. It's hard work being yourself, nail polish remover.

dogs and petrol

Loser libraries

I'm going to start my own magazine called, 'Womens' Weakly'. Yes, a weekly brain sucking parasite which spreads its words and pictures throughout its host organism, eventually strangling it to death. Why would I need anesthetic after being forced to read womens' magazines at the doctor surgery. All sensation has been numbed. I don't need to pay $7 for a flimsy compilation to tell me how to live my life. I know what food to eat, because my body tells me. I know what to wear because it feels good when I put it on. I don't particularly want to be in a relationship with someone who wears ridiculously white Calvin Klein undies.
What a waste of a tank of gas.