I Need to be Famous by Thursday

I am finally coming to terms with the fact that I am not cut out to be a productive member of society.

I originally intended to become a doctor or medical researcher.  I thought that I wanted to save people, discover things and change the world.  But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I just want to sit on my couch in my underpants all day.

This is why I need you to make me famous by Thursday.  Thursday is the day that I officially graduate from college.  Back in January, I thought I would be ecstatic when this day finally came.  I now realize that graduating is a huge mistake.  I wish I could take it back, but I can't.  At this point I can't even fail.  I am starting to panic.  

It doesn't have to be this way.  

If my blog can become famous and profitable, I will be rescued from the brink of adulthood.   If my blog becomes famous, it is possible that I will never have to wear pants again!  You have no idea how much this would mean to me.  I hate pants. 

Here is what you can do to help:

*Wear a brown ribbon in honor of my cause (nobody has dibs on brown yet, right?)  This will not only help me, but it will raise awareness for terminally adult people all over the world.  

*Run down the street screaming about how awesome my blog is.  Make sure to clearly annunciate the URL (spell it out if you have to.) 

*Hang up a banner outside your door that says "help rescue the author of hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com from impending adulthood." 

*Make flyers to support my cause.  Neon green and yellow would probably be good background colors for the flyers you make.  Just FYI.  

*Take out a phonebook.  Start dialing in the A's somewhere.  Educate the call recipient about my plight.  If they resist, ask them if they ever had a dream.  Use their first name if it is listed.  Try to use their nostalgia and insecurity over their broken dreams to get them on your side.  But don't be inefficient!  If you sense that the person is a heartless bastard who will not change their position no matter how much you plead, move on to the next name.  This is a numbers game and you can't get them all.  

*Call your local radio station.  Dedicate a song to me - preferably "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey.  Once again, make sure to clearly annunciate all syllables in my blog URL.  I cannot stress how important this is.    

That's all you have to do to assure that my future can be spent pants-less and happy!  Is that too much to ask? 

P.S.  I am completely serious about this.  How funny would it be if someone actually did some of these things?  Even if I don't get famous, I would probably be able to live the rest of my life in complete happiness knowing that some person, somewhere did these things in my honor.  

If you take a movie/picture of yourself doing any of these things, I will post it on my soon-to-be super famous blog along with a description of how awesome you are.  

P.P.S.  I wanted to tell you again that I am completely serious, just in case you didn't believe me.  

Am I Going To Die??

I woke up yesterday morning and became vaguely aware that my right toe felt like - well, the best way to describe it would be "dying-death-kill-maim-destroy-ness."  

This was only slightly more annoying than the fact that it was 6:00 AM on the only day I could sleep in and I could not get back to sleep. I tossed and turned until 6:37 and then decided that going to the ER would be a good idea because I was 96% sure that there was a firemonster in my toe.  

So it was that I found myself competing for medical attention with a burn victim, a dying six-year-old and a man with what appeared to be a dragon-conquering wound.  They were all looking at me like I did not deserve to be there.   

When it was finally my turn to be seen by the doctor, he asked me what was wrong and I had to look him in the face and say "my toe hurts."  

He asked me if I had a blister.   I was a little offended that he had so grossly underestimated my ability to accurately assess pain.  

"It's not a blister," I told him with what I hoped was an icy glare.  

He proceeded to ask me if I had a splinter.     

"It's not a splinter,"  I said in a low, menacing tone.  I wanted to tell him that it was probably a firemonster, but doctors don't like it when you beat them to a diagnosis.  I decided to play it cool.  

The doctor asked me to remove my socks.  Upon seeing my bulbous, throbbing toe, he appeared to take me a little more seriously.  

After asking me about several pleasantly legitimate possible sources of pain, like hammer wounds, rabid spiders and gout, he said "I'm going to order you some antibiotics just in case..."  

As it turns out, I may have an infection in my bone.  This means that I have to take a ludicrous amount of antibiotics every six hours to prevent death.  

My body doesn't seem to understand that the antibiotics are on its side.  So far, it has tried virtually every trick in the book to violently expel the antibiotics from my system.   I've tried to talk to my body about its behavior.  I told it that it was going to die if it didn't learn to get along with the antibiotics.  It didn't seem to care.  It is a stupid, stubborn little body - the kind of body that would die just to prove a point.  

I have since changed my angle.  I am now trying to appeal to my body's competitive side.  I told it that death means failure.  I asked it if it wanted to fail.  It made a gurgling sound which I interpreted to mean "no."  I said "Okay then, if you don't want to fail, I would suggest not dying.  Nobody wins if you die."  

I don't know whether or not I got through to it, but I am encouraged by the fact that my body has yet to follow through on dying.  Though I'd like to give myself credit for convincing my body not to die, the truth is there is another more plausible explanation for my continuing survival:  For all of its stubbornness, my body is also lazy - so lazy that it may forgo dying simply because it is too much work.   

It's Game Time! Vote For the Winner!

I challenged my fellow blogger, Kaloo, to a duel.  The idea is that our readers will vote for which of the following MS paint creatures would win in a battle to the death.  

This week we have Fire-breathing Spiky Unicorn versus Kung Fu Chicken.  

When voting, please take into account each creature's strength, agility, size, intelligence, special powers and basic awesomeness.   

Okay.   The power is in your hands now.   Will it be Kung Fu Chicken or Fire-breathing Spiky Unicorn?  Go!

WARNING: I Am Learning How To Do Computer Stuff. Blog Layout May Change Often.

I am just figuring out all this HTML business, so it is only natural for me to experiment with it.  I am halfway thinking about changing the background every day.   If you are one of those people who is diametrically opposed to change, I am sincerely sorry.  But change means no more mustard yellow and that is a good thing, I think.  Just in case you are still hurt about this, I drew you a picture of a raptor to make you feel better.  <--------------------

Today's background is a picture I took of one of my shirts.  I know it's cool, but don't get too attached to it.  It may be totally different tomorrow.  

I am also learning how to add videos to my blog.   If you think my sense of humor is random in written word, just wait until you see my videos.  

Anyway, if you have any suggestions or things you would like to see on my blog, please let me know.  I am now somewhat competent to oblige your wishes.  

Thing of the Day: Oscillating Fan. Rating: AWESOME

Dear Oscillating Fan, 

I commend you for your selfless efforts at keeping me comfortable.  No matter how hot it is, you patiently sit there and blow air at me without stopping to question the fairness of the situation.  You don't mind staying awake all night and all day, tirelessly blowing air on me.  Even when I trip over your cord, knocking you violently to the floor, you keep on faithfully doing your job.  

Sometimes I forget to unplug you when I leave the house.  You don't ever get upset about this.  You seem to simply assume that I want you to keep blowing on things, even in my absence.  

The other day, I thought it would be fun to see what happened when I stuck a piece of paper in you.  I wanted to see if I could make confetti.  I feel terribly guilty about this.  I don't know why I did it.  I shouldn't have amused myself at your expense.  You saw me coming at you with the paper and did not even flinch.  You trusted me, and I stuck a piece of paper in you and messed up your rotor.  I am sorry.  

When I realized that I had hurt you, I tenderly removed the mangled pieces of paper from your inner workings.  I told you I was sorry and you looked like you understood.  When I put you back together and plugged you in again, you started blowing air on me like nothing had ever happened.  I admire your extraordinary capability to forgive.  You are a good fan.  

I would like to do something nice for you, but I don't know what types of things oscillating fans enjoy.  I have had a couple ideas, but every time I ask you if you would enjoy them, you just shake your head.  I tried to surprise you by cooking you dinner, but you just spit it back in my face.  That was kind of rude, but I suppose I can forgive you because you are such an awesome fan.   

Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for being so nice to me.   If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask.  

Technorati Claim

TJ3VMN5RS9YE

I finally got to call the Poison Control Hotline

I woke up late yesterday.  That meant that I had to do my 15-mile run during the hottest part of the day.  Raw stupidity coupled with an unrelenting devotion to my olympic pipe-dream got me out the door.

Yesterday also happened to be the day I discovered that my city's Parks and Recreation department does not believe in water fountains.  As a consequence, I found myself desperately thirsty and far away from home.  When the "Oh-my-God-I-am-so-thirsty-I-could-just-lie-down-and-die" stage of thirst hit me, I was still several miles from anything resembling a populated area.  

Just when I thought I was going to actually die, I came upon the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life:  a sprinkler.

If only I had known what a fickle stroke of luck this was.  

I am not psychic, so this particular sprinkler seemed perfect: close to the road, far from the house and partially obscured from view by an immaculately groomed hedge.  I stopped and nonchalantly walked toward my target.  

I was pleased to see that the hose was not attached to the sprinkler head - far easier to drink from.  I wouldn't have to chase it around the yard, biting at it like a dog!  (If you have ever tried to drink from a moving sprinkler, or have seen a dog try to drink from a moving sprinkler, you will surely understand my jubilation at not having to do so).   

My high spirits were soon tempered by the realization that turning on this particular hose was no small task.  There were an unimaginable number of switches, levers and wires attached to the inconspicuous black box from which the hose emanated.  If that wasn't enough, the entire apparatus needed to be plugged in to an electrical box that was in clear view of the house.

I almost gave up...  - Almost.  

At that point, I had invested too much to quit.  I fiddled nervously with wires and switches, like a criminal hot-wiring a car.   When I thought that I had the right combination, I made a dash for the electrical box. 

Once I plugged the system in, it was pretty easy.  I flipped one last switch and a stream of cold, clear liquid came gushing out of the hose onto the ground, obliterating a tastefully arranged patch of tiny blue flowers.  

Retrospectively, I can see that there were more than enough clues at that point to figure out what was about to happen to me, but we all know that thirst is inversely proportional to logic.  Only after my hydration status had returned to normal could I see the error of my judgement.  

I stuck the end of the hose directly into my mouth and began choking down water as quickly as I could.  

It was already too late when my brain registered an incongruity between the way that water is supposed to taste and the taste of the substance I was currently ingesting.  The only way to describe it is "Suave 'Ocean Breeze' shampoo mixed with tree sap."

At that point I realized that the property owners were the kind of people who put pesticides in their lawn-irrigation system with nary a thought of the health and well-being of parched runners.  Bastards.  

I stood there for a moment, the hose dangling limply in my hand.  What had I done?  

This is a tricky situation to find yourself in.  At first I thought it would be a good idea to get help, but how would I explain the events leading up to my present situation?  I imagined myself knocking on the property owner's door:

Me.  "Um... hi.  I just drank about a pint of 'water' from your fancy little irrigation system there.  Would you mind driving me to the emergency room to get my stomach pumped?  Yes?  Well, could you at least tell me the name of the chemicals that are going to kill me?" 

The explanation for my plight was prohibitively embarrassing.   Since embarrassment is also inversely proportional to logic, I decided to just run home.

The last 3 miles of my run were a blur of shame, panic and pesticide burps.

When I finally reached my apartment, I crawled up my steps, not unlike the scary child from The Ring, and oozed slowly through my front door.  

Boyfriend was alarmed:  "What happened to you??" he gasped.

"I'll tell you later," I moaned.  "Just get me the number for poison control."

Boyfriend was visibly distressed at this request, but when someone who looks like a character from a horror flick asks you to do something, you don't ask questions.  

Like 911, the Poison Control Hotline is reserved only for people in the midst of an emergency.  This being the case, I had always thought that calling Poison Control would be exciting - like being part of a special club.  I think most people feel this way deep down.  Well, if you ever wondered, calling Poison Control is not nearly as fun as you'd think it would be.   

Following is my best recollection of the phone conversation between myself and Poison Control:

Poison Control:  "You have reached the poison control hotline for Montana, Colorado and Idaho, this is Roberta speaking.  What seems to be the problem?"

Me:  "I think I may have ingested a large amount of pesticides."

Roberta:   "What kind of pesticides?"

Me:  "I don't know."

Roberta:  "You don't know?  Do you have the container that the pesticides were in?"  

Me:  "They were in a sprinkler."

Roberta:  "A sprinkler?"

Me:  "Yeah.  I was running."

Roberta:  "you were running from what?"

Me:  "No, I was running, like on a run... um... exercising?"

Roberta:  "you were exercising?"

Me:  "Yes, and it was really hot and I stopped to get a drink from someone's sprinkler."

Roberta:  (silence)

Me:  "It tasted like Ocean Breeze shampoo mixed with tree sap."

Roberta:  "I don't really know any chemicals that fit that profile, ma'am.  How much did you drink?"

Me:  "Uh... probably about a pint?  I was really thirsty."

Roberta (after another prolonged silence): "... How do you feel now?"

Me:  "Stupid."

Roberta:  "Do you feel lightheaded or nauseated?"

Me:  "Oh... uh.. kind of."  

Roberta:  "Are you hallucinating?"

Me:  "I don't know...  are you real?"

Roberta:  "Yes, I'm real."

Me:  "How do I know you aren't just saying that?"

Roberta (annoyed):  "Ma'am, are you hallucinating or not?"

Me:  "Um..."  - I figured I had about a 50/50 chance of getting it right - "No?"

Roberta:  "Well, since I don't know what chemical you may have ingested, the best I can do for you is tell you to sip some water, lie down and wait to see what happens."

Me:  (on the verge of tears) "am I going to die?"

Roberta:  "No ma'am, I don't think you are going to die.  You might throw up, though."

Me:  "Okay."

Roberta:  "Call back if you have any more questions or if you start to feel feverish or hallucinate." 

I had a lot more questions, but I doubted that Roberta, the possibly imaginary receptionist from poison control could (or wanted to) answer them.   

I hung up the phone and sat down on the kitchen floor.  Boyfriend peeked his head around the corner.  "Is everything alright?" he asked.  

"Well, that depends,"  I replied.  "Are you real?"