I'm Definitely Not Dead

I woke up really early on Wednesday morning for no reason.  In retrospect, I can see it was probably my body's way of telling me that I might die later that day, so I better get the hell up and start enjoying the shit out of life.

My life that morning was not particularly enjoyable.  I felt like my internal organs had been punched by someone who is really enthusiastic about punching and therefore punches a lot.  In fact, they love punching so much that when they finished punching my internal organs, they moved on to punching my skin and all my muscles and also my eyes.

I don't own an accurate thermometer, but I once calibrated the thermometer I own using an accurate thermometer.

The thermometer read 102.3, so by my calculations, I was running a fever of about 103.5.  I took a couple aspirin and tried to get some work done.  That's when I wrote/illustrated this post.  I may have also responded to a few emails.  If you got an email from me last Wednesday that didn't make a lot of sense, I apologize.  I wasn't drunk.  I was just very ill.  

I eventually gave up on trying to be responsible and just sat on the couch staring off into space really intensely. 

That evening, my friend called to ask me if I'd like to meet her and another friend for drinks.  I didn't feel much like drinking, but I was feeling a little better and I'm almost tragically impulsive, so I was like "heck yeah I'll meet you guys for drinks!" Then I staggered into the bathroom to try and clean myself up enough to go out in public.  

At the bar, I ordered tea because I was really, really cold and even though I'm impulsive and irresponsible, I know enough not to complicate illnesses with alcohol.  The bartender looked at me like I was the first person ever to order raspberry tea in a bar.  

I was able to enjoy my tea for approximately five minutes before I started to feel emergency-nauseous and had to run to the bathroom. The next little bit is kind of a blur for me. I know that I passed out in the bathroom. I don't know how long I was out, but my first thought upon waking was "OH MY GOD I HAVE A BRAIN TUMOR!!!!!! I KNEW IT!!!"

I knew I should probably go to the hospital, but I'm still too poor for insurance, so I tried to convince myself that I was okay and I should just crawl home and sleep it off.  I tried to stand up, but I ended up head-butting the wall and crumpling to the floor again.  I lay there on the ground staring at some graffiti that just said "poop poop poop poop poop."  I started wondering whether that would be the last thing I ever saw.  It was a depressing thought for a few reasons.  

After several more unsuccessful attempts at getting to my feet, I finally made it.  I used this as an excuse to not go to the hospital.  "Hey, look at me!" I thought.  "I'm doing great!  

I staggered out of the bathroom and toward my friends.  I remember my limbs making all sorts of spastic movements as I tried to glide along and look like nothing was wrong.  I ran into the wall and ricocheted off into the other wall.   It felt like I was competing against my need to go to the hospital:  if I could stay upright, it meant I was fine and goddamn it, I was not about to lose that game and give up the entirety my newfound income just to make sure I wasn't dying.  

I finally made it back to the bar and collapsed onto it.  That's when I lost the game and decided to go to the hospital because I was legitimately scared of dying.  That's also where things get hazy again.  I remember the next 20 minutes in little clips.  There's me lying face down in a puddle on the bar, blowing little bubbles in it while trying to breathe.  Then I'm being carried out of the bar.  Then I'm being driven to the hospital.  I was breathing really fast; I remember that because once we got to the hospital, the intake nurse kept yelling at me to slow down my breathing and I couldn't.  My entire body was shaking convulsively and I felt more cold than I have ever felt in my life.  My blood pressure was 70/35.  When I caught a glimpse of those little numbers on the screen, I immediately regretted ever knowing anything about medicine because my knowledge only contributed to making me feel positive that I was going to die.  "Well," I thought, "this is it.  My last words are going to be 'fuck you, I can't breathe any slower!'"  It was all very dramatic.  

 

As is often the case with medical emergencies, it was not immediately apparent what was wrong with me, so the doctor called for tests. Lots and lots of tests.  

Blood samples are easy because they are passive.  You just lie there and let the nurses stick needles in you until they are done.  But urine tests require your active participation.  When you are in the throes of death like I was, providing a urine specimen is a veritable quest.  I could have rewritten The Iliad about my experience peeing into a cup.  

I was still having a lot of trouble maintaining consciousness, so the doctor had to supervise me in the restroom.   

I knew I had reached a pretty low point in my life.  There I was, halfway unconscious on a toilet; trying my hardest to pee into a tiny plastic cup and not on my own hand or the floor.  It sounds like a very simple goal to accomplish, but it isn't. I was crying quietly and drooling on myself.  I didn't even care that a stranger was standing there watching the whole pathetic situation. In that moment, I had no dignity.

Despite my herculean efforts, the urine test didn't tell them anything.  The blood test showed a slightly high white blood cell count, but other than that, it was normal.  The only thing that even hinted at what could be wrong with me was my heart.  After looking at my EKG, the doctor was like "Your heart is being weird." And I was like "Why is it doing that?"  And the doctor was all "I don't know."  

Four hours later, I wasn't dead and the doctors still couldn't figure out what was going on, so they sent me home.    

As I'm sure is the case with many of you, I walk that thin line between hypochondriac and a normal level of concern about my health.  So when I go through a terrifying medical saga only to come out the other side with a tentative diagnosis of "weird heart," I panic a little.  

The past week has basically just been a string of moments in which I feel almost positive that I'm going to die.  

I still don't know what is wrong with me, but I'm definitely not dead and I'm feeling a lot better, so that's good.  

The Alot is Better Than You at Everything

As a grammatically conscientious person who frequents internet forums and YouTube, I have found it necessary to develop a few coping mechanisms.  When someone types out "u" instead of "you," instead of getting mad, I imagine them having only one finger on each hand and then their actions seem reasonable.  If I only had one finger on each hand, I'd leave out unnecessary letters too!

If I come across a person who seems to completely ignore the existence of apostrophes and capital letters and types things like "im an eagle and im typing with my talons, so dont make fun of me cuz this is hard," I like to imagine that they actually are an eagle typing with their talons.  It would be a hassle if you had to hop in the air and use your feet to karate-chop two keys simultaneously every time you wanted to use the shift key to make a capital letter.   Also, eagles lack manual dexterity, so I can understand why they'd want to leave out apostrophes.  Eagles are all about efficiency.  

But there is one grammatical mistake that I particularly enjoy encountering.  It has become almost fun for me to come across people who take the phrase "a lot" and condense it down into one word, because when someone says "alot," this is what I imagine:

The Alot is an imaginary creature that I made up to help me deal with my compulsive need to correct other people's grammar.  It kind of looks like a cross between a bear, a yak and a pug, and it has provided hours of entertainment for me in a situation where I'd normally be left feeling angry and disillusioned with the world.  

For example, when I read the sentence "I care about this alot," this is what I imagine: 

Similarly, when someone says "alot of _______", I picture an Alot made out of whatever they are talking about.  

If someone says something like "I feel lonely alot" or "I'm angry alot," I'm going to imagine them standing there with an emo haircut, sharing their feelings with an Alot.  

The Alot is incredibly versatile. 

So the next time you are reading along and you see some guy ranting about how he is "alot better at swimming than Michael Phelps," instead of getting angry, you can be like "You're right!  Alots are known for their superior swimming capabilities."

  

Someone Should Probably Kill This Post With Fire

I put up a poll a couple days ago to try to gauge how you guys would feel about me putting a couple ads on my blog.  I allowed you to pick multiple answers, so the data might be skewed slightly, but even still, the results were a little surprising to me:

Don't you think you guys are being a little melodramatic about this?  Did you know that 224 of you are dead now?  

You should really try to die less easily.  

And to the 162 of you who are going to come to my house and kick me in the face (even though half of you are probably dead right now due to overlap in the results):  I'll be wearing a steel-reinforced hockey mask.   

Anyway, the ads are up.  There are three of them.   I know next to nothing about SEO, so the ads that show up are going to be pretty random.   

And in case any of you are worried, this is as far as I'm going to go with monetization on this blog.  (I had to bold this next part because even after posting about this on Facebook, Twitter and my blog, I am still getting comments/emails about how I better not put pop-ups on my blog.) 

You will never see me write a paid review of anything.  I will never molest you with pop-ups or pop-unders or anything that flashes or moves or causes my page to freeze.  There will be no pop-ups or moving things.  None.  Ever.  

That little box of text in the sidebar is it.  That is what I was making a big deal about.  

That being said, I do want to make this whole advertising thing more entertaining for you guys.  So what I'm going to do is run AdSense until I can get some direct advertisers who will allow me to design my own ads.  So, direct advertisers, here is a sample of what I can do for you, based off of product-requests from my readers (via Twitter and Facebook): 

While I recognize that I probably won't be getting advertising from Macintosh or Adobe Illustrator, it doesn't hurt to court them a little.  However, someone needs to take down Charmin Ultra because their thinly-veiled dingleberry jokes are getting kind of annoying.  

IN OTHER NEWS:  I haven't been posting as frequently.  You have probably noticed this.   I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up that crazy 7-day-a-week posting schedule I had going last month, but I think I can manage 3 or 4 posts a week pretty indefinitely once my life settles down a little.  So just in case you were worried, this lapse in posting doesn't mean my blog is in its death throes.  On the contrary, it means that my blog is doing so well that I've been too busy to write a post every single day.  

OH MY GOD THIS POST KEEPS GOING AND THERE REALLY ISN'T ANY CONTINUITY WHATSOEVER BUT THAT'S OKAY BECAUSE GUESS WHAT?

SPAGHATTA NADLE! 

I have been inundated with emails about Spaghatta Nadle, so here you go, weirdos. 

Spaghatta Nadle encounters the comments section of icanhascheezburger... 

And now two guest strips by Boyfriend: 

Okay.  This post was a monstrosity.  All the separate parts were okay, but when I put them together it just came out all weird.  Like putting A1 steak sauce on a banana.  

UPDATE:  I've been asked a few times about whether clicking the ads makes me money.  The answer is yes, but you can't just go clicking on every ad because you like me.  I wholeheartedly appreciate the sentiment, but Google classifies it as click-fraud and I'll get in trouble.  However, if you see something that interests you, feel free to take a look at it.  

How a Sandwich Makes You Its Bitch in 11 Easy Steps

1.  At first, you are unaware of your desire for a sandwich

At this stage, you are generally unaware of any desire to eat a sandwich.  Maybe you are watching TV.  Maybe you are talking on the phone.  Whatever you are doing, you are content to be alive without a sandwich in your mouth. 

2.  Desire for sandwich registers

You become vaguely aware that something isn't right when a feeling of uneasiness engulfs you like a dark, suffocating fog.   You realize that you are going to need a sandwich.  

3.  Panic

HOLY SHIT!!!!!!  YOU NEED A SANDWICH RIGHT FUCKING NOW OR YOU ARE GOING TO DIE!!!!!!!! 

This stage comes on abruptly and usually before you have time to even make it to the kitchen, let alone go through all the steps of preparing a sandwich.   You feel like your body is imploding into a black hole of hunger and without a sandwich to plug that hole, you will almost certainly perish. 

4.  Melodramatic journey to kitchen

Hunger has a way of bringing drama to the surface.  The combination of hopelessness and self-pity often leads to unnecessary theatrics. 

5.  Planning

Your sandwich is going to be the best sandwich ever.  A sandwich to rule all sandwiches.  No matter how many things you put on it, it always seems like there needs to be more things.  

6. Creation of a monstrosity that even you will look back on with shame and bewilderment

Hunger has clearly clouded your judgment because your sandwich turns out to be a towering atrocity of questionable meat and condiments that are wonderful on their own, but taken together, create an oozing sludge of nearly inedible failure.  

Despite this, you feel like you are some sort of mad genius.  You should be on Iron Chef!  You are creating new flavor frontiers!

7.  Anticipation

This is probably the best stage of eating a sandwich.   In this moment, you imagine a kind of nirvana that is not attainable by mortals.  Your mind conjures up a flavor experience so powerful that it defies logic.  As you sit there staring at your glorious sandwich, nothing else matters.  

8a.  First assault

 

You seem to have neglected a few details during preparation, namely the discrepancy between the size of your mouth and the size of what you can reasonably expect to fit inside something the size of your mouth.  Your sandwich is cumbersome and unwieldy.  If you want to eat it, you are going to have to get creative. 

8b.  Second assault 

8c.  Third assault 

9. Violence

You finally resort to trying to crush the sandwich with your hands.  You stand over it like a caveman, beating it with your fists in a fit of rabid frustration.  Condiment sludge squishes out the sides in rivers.  

10.  Success (?)

The sandwich finally submits to your reshaping efforts.  You have reduced your once majestic creation to a festering shadow of its former self, but it is now possible to put it in your mouth!  YAY!!!!  You think you've won.  

11.  Resolution

Sandwiches almost always end in one of two ways.  

If you made the unfortunate mistake of underestimating your hunger, you will be unable to enjoy the final third of your sandwich because you will be too busy being afraid that there will not be enough of it.  Every wonderful bite is filled with the painful realization that it is bringing you closer to having nothing more to eat.  You begin to panic.  You try taking smaller bites and chewing longer.  You alternate taking a real bite and just sniffing the sandwich and moving your jaw to simulate eating.  But nothing can reverse the inescapable fact that you didn't make yourself enough sandwich.

Conversely, if you overestimated the amount of free space inside of you, you will be faced with a harrowing battle of man against sandwich.  And the sandwich always wins.  If you force yourself to finish the sandwich, it will defeat you from the inside.  If you give up and leave part of the sandwich uneaten, it will haunt you with guilt and feelings of inadequacy.