Here's a question for you:

When taking a digital picture, how do you get the neon lights in the background to smear across the foreground of the photo? Do you know what I mean? Have you ever seen those pictures that look like the camera person got the shakes right before clicking the fucking button, though the people in the photo remain in focus? Wow, that turned out to be more than just ah question. But you've seen these pictures, I'm sure. Most likely on FacialBook, too.

I want to know how these pictures can be taken. The reason being: I don't ever want to accidentally take a picture that turns out that way. It takes away from the focus of/people in the picture. If the subject of the photograph isn't interesting enough on its own, then it's probably not worth taking a picture of it in the first place. Those types of effects act as a photo dressing, some flitzy accessory to distract you from realizing that whatever you did the night those pictures were taken was really fucking boring. You want lights zipping past your face like that, get some glow sticks and go to a rave.

oup-ta, oup-ta, oup-ta, oup-ta, oup-ta

Seriously?

Some of the remaining '85 Bears are remaking "The Super Bowl Shuffle."

For a Boost Mobile Commercial.

Lame.

Fuck you, winter funk. Fuck you.

Talk Dirty to Me

Late night commercials and informercials are my favorite. They're hilarious, ridiculous, and horribly produced/constructed. One that I have trouble with, though, is the phone sex commercial for LiveLinks. There's a line in the spot that says something to the effect of "It's a proven fact: talking is more stimulating than typing."

I guess the phone sex industry, like almost every other business, has been negatively affected by this internet thing, or whatever the kids are calling it these days. But instead of focusing solely on the positive aspects of the service it provides, LiveLinks decides to setup a compare and contrast between itself and its main competitor--the internet. Stu-pid. Have you ever searched for anything on the internet? It doesn't matter what you type, something sick, twisted, sexual, or a combination of the three will come up in the results. No amount of talking can compare to that.

Also, the "Typing vs. Talking" argument the commercial poses makes me wonder if LiveLinks is comparing cyber sex to phone sex. Isn't cyber sex an antiquated practice? I don't know. Maybe it isn't. I've heard things about kids today having the sexting on their phones, so it stands to reason that it can still happen online. LiveLinks should really present some stats. How many people still use chat rooms? Which areas of the brain are triggered by talking/hearing as opposed to typing/reading? Does it depend on the person? I know I've read some pretty stimulating literature (in chat rooms, too). And even if LiveLinks was able to prove that talking is more stimulating than typing, its forgetting one key factor: the other people in the chat room with whom you're communicating can't hear you cry when it's over.

Sha-la-la-la

Here’s a picture of the fam on Chirstmas Eve. From left to right, we’ve got me, Reeners (Mom), Lara (little sis), Val (older sis), and Israel (brother-in-law). Doesn’t my mom look like the littlest babooshka in a series of Russian nesting dolls? She definitely doesn’t look happy here. Which reminds me of another photo. In fact, it was our first picture taken together, and just like this one, it shows how massive I am compared to Reeners. When I was born, I was three feet tall and weighed 35 pounds. The photo shows my dad in the foreground, holding me up like a trophy winning musky. In the background, you could see the doctors resuscitating my mom. Unfortunately, the photo no longer exists. The trauma my birth inflicted on her was too great to bear. It was the first time I almost killed her, and fifteen years ago—when she saw the picture hanging on my bedroom door—she snapped, ripped it to pieces, and had a nervous breakdown. The visible effects of that episode can still be seen in this picture.

She is not amused.

Time Heals Nothing

Psycho Joe wants my blood. He’s angry for the way Cornelius and I ended our friendship with him. So angry that he’s threatened our lives. While traveling back to Minnesota during the Winter Break, an email popped up on my phone. It was an alert notifying me that Psycho Joe had sent me a message through Facebook. Thank God I was stopped at a wayside when I read it, because if I had seen it while driving I likely would’ve veered off the road. The subject line: long time. The message: it’s been awhile.

I left my mom’s house that day with a full pack of cigarettes for the road. From Wheaton to Rochester—about a 4 ½ to 5-hour drive—I smoked six or seven cigs. From Rochester to my apartment—two hours, at most—I finished the pack. That message really stressed me out. I figured this Facebook message was a way to strike fear into me, let me know that I’m still on his shit list.

While we were all still in college, one of our friend’s sister worked with Psycho Joe at a health food store. When we found out, I wondered if he would try to find us. At that point, I felt guilty and ashamed about what I had done, but I didn’t want him to confront me. I figured he was angry, and I figured right. The first time he talked to her about us, he said, “I want to kill Dan and Cornelius.”

I hadn’t heard from him firsthand since Cornelius and I had played another friend’s graduation party the summer after we graduated from college. Our friend’s cousin, who happens to be friends with Psycho Joe, was the party and must have told him that we were there, too. The next day, Cornelius and I both got phone calls from Psycho Joe. When I saw his number on the Caller ID, I reverted back to my teenage self and let it go to voice mail. The second the light indicating a message began blinking, I checked the message. It was ten to fifteen seconds of maniacal laughing. I erased the message and tried to put it out of my mind, though Cornelius and I would talk and stress over it for the next few days.

The last time I had seen Psycho Joe was at College of DuPage, nine years ago. I was walking up the stairs in the Student Center; he was walking down. It was a passing period in the afternoon, so the area was crowded. When we crossed paths and made eye contact, his lips curled into smile that seemed to say, “If it weren’t for all the people around, I’d shove you over the railing.”

When I got back to my apartment in Minnesota, one of the first things I did was text Cornelius to tell him about the Facebook message. He agreed with me: it was creepy. We traded messages trying to figure out what it meant and what I should do. During this exchange, Cornelius told me he heard that Psycho Joe had recently gotten out of jail. This didn’t help matters. One of the reasons we stopped hanging out with him in high school was because his behavior seemed on par with that of someone bound for jail. The phone calls years ago felt like a scare tactic. I couldn’t figure out what he was trying to do with this message. If he had been to jail, who knows what he’s capable of doing. Maybe it was a way to get his feelings off his chest, some sort of rehabilitation and he was going about it in a socially awkward way. Or maybe some horrible things happened to him in there, and now he’s looking to take out his rage on those of us who have wronged him. Not knowing was stressing me out the most. So I decided to respond to his message with, Yeah, it has been.

The way we ended our friendship with Psycho Joe has pretty much tormented me ever since it happened. We all had been good friends during our freshman and sophomore years at West; but during the second semester of that second year, we were noticing several disturbing changes in Psycho Joe that made us rethink our friendship with him. First off, he was getting really into the fact that his friend, J.J., was a Gangster Disciples legacy. J.J.’s dad or uncle happened to be a high-ranking member of the gang in the early seventies. Psycho Joe thought this was great and began associating with other people in the area that wore the GD colors and who, at the very least, acted as though they were in the gang. Psycho Joe knew how to form his hands into all the gang signs. He made Xeroxes of them, placed the pages in a binder, and one night he showed Cornelius and me the whole thing. The way he explained the numbers and which way to point, it seemed like he was trying to recruit us.

I didn’t really think that he was going to join a gang. We lived in a pretty well to do suburb, and the chances of him breaking in seemed slim. What worried me was the idea that the boredom of living in an area where kids resort to petty crimes might cause him to one-up the taggers and the destroyers of mailboxes by committing more violent crimes. I had my reasons for feeling this way.

One night at the Baja’s—this clearing along the Prairie Path where underage kids partied—Psycho Joe tossed back a mouthful of Percocets and tried to pick a fight with this Indian kid who was older and twice his size. The reason: the Indian kid had an ongoing tiff with J.J. Psycho Joe got his face kicked in pretty bad.

After that, he began bringing weapons, pot, and scripts (that he had illegally) to school. At one point, he asked me if I’d stash a quarter ounce bag of weed and his butterfly knife in my locker because he had already been caught with drugs in his. He began telling Cornelius and I about the people he was hanging around when he wasn’t with us. Usually they had some sort of gang affiliation and access to drugs that I’d never consider taking. It all became too much. We were fed up with him and came to the conclusion that we needed to stop hanging out with him to avoid the consequences of his actions.

He was no longer going to West by our junior year. Why, I’m not sure, though I’m guessing it had to do with the locker searches. But that didn’t stop him from calling us. And instead of telling him that we didn’t want to be his friends anymore, instead of trying to find out why he was on a path of self-destructive behavior, we simply stopped answering his phone calls. When we’d see his number on the Caller ID, we’d let it go to voice mail. When our parents would tell us he was calling, we’d say don’t pick it up. If it was too late and they had already picked up, we’d tell them to say we weren’t there.

I can imagine how damaging that would be for someone to go through. When you think you can count on someone to be there and they’re not, it’s heartbreaking. I know we didn’t go about it the right way, but what the hell did we know? We were sixteen and dealing with some pretty heavy shit of our own. We didn’t need the added worry of getting in trouble by proxy. We felt that distancing ourselves from him was the only choice. Still, I’m not proud about the way it went down.

Psycho Joe’s response to my Facebook message rubbed me the wrong way. It said, so what is dan dewolf up to these days? If we were sitting in the same room while he said this to me, his delivery would be condescending and filled with suppressed anger. He’d be leaning back in his chair with one arm slung over the backrest, one leg crossed over the other. He’d have a shit-eating grin on his face. I think this because he didn’t say, what are you up to these days. And because nothing in his past would lead me to believe that he’s genuinely interested in what I’ve done, unless it somehow gave him insight to my misery or it provided useful information for attacking me when I least suspected.

For years I’ve had dreams where he’d make an appearance. It’s the same situation every time. I’m running somewhere with a group of friends, though they’re people I can’t identify. We’re not exercising or anything. It’s like we’re really excited to get somewhere else. Right when the group takes off, Joe appears. He’s not visibly angry, and he’s not out for a fight. He looks broken, like he just wants answers, an apology. So I say I’m sorry. I try to tell him I didn’t know any better, and that there was no excuse for ditching him. He doesn’t accept my apology. He doesn’t say anything. When I wake up, my chest and arms feel inflated with rotten air, and I have trouble sleeping the next few nights.

I tried to sound oblivious to our past when I responded to his second Facebook message. I wondered if he would air out his grievances, allowing me the chance to explain or even apologize. But I still feared that he might do something to my mom’s house if he knew I still lived in the area. I said, “Working and going to school in Minnesota. How about you?” I can only assume he figured my response was insincere. Maybe he thought I was patronizing him, or maybe he was upset that I didn’t try to tell him off. Who knows, maybe he was upset that even responded in the first place. But he didn’t send me another message after that. There were no requests for an apology or explanation, and he didn’t take the chance to tell me I was awful friend or a bad person. I’d like to think that he’s decided to let it go, that he’ll stop carrying this anger toward us. But that might be a selfish thing to think. Who knows? He could be working on an epic response. He could be trying to track me down as we speak.

Since I probably won't get a chance to update this today...

...I'm posting "Carolina" by M. Ward, which will serve as track one on my writing playlist. Other tracks include "Carmelita" by Warren Zevon and "Broken Hearts are for Assholes" by Frank Zappa.

Ah, what the fuck. Might as well post the other two songs while I'm at it. But the rest of the soundtrack will remain a mystery.





I associate this Zappa song with Coffee House--the once a month musical get-together at First Presbyterian in Glen Ellyn. When we were in high school, the Baxter brothers--along with Paul Carmody and Jason Miller, I believe the band's name was Grand Unified Theory (G.U.T. for short)---closed their set with "Broken Hearts are for Assholes" and, afterward, were promptly informed that they were no longer allowed to play Coffee House.

"Don't fool yourself, girl. It's winking at you."

It's a Series of Choices

Got off on the wrong foot to start the semester. On Saturday, I realized that I hadn't added my English 242 (Creative Writing) course to D2L. When I did add it, a message appeared saying that I would have to wait 1-3 days before it would appear on D2L. For those of you who don't know, D2L (Desire 2 Learn) is an online teaching tool that allows T.A.'s, lecturers, and professors the ability to upload documents, update grades, have discussions--it's basically a way to communicate with students. Which is why I planned on using it pretty heavily this term. But on Monday, since it hadn't been 1-3 days (weekends don't count), I couldn't access my course on D2L.

It turned out to be all right, though, since I still have my Composition class blog up. I was able to post the syllabus there and I used the doc cam to go over a few handouts. The class went pretty well, but it's hard to say whether or not the first day provides an accurate picture of how the rest of the semester will go. I was pretty tired when I taught--I had been up for 22 hours at the beginning of class--and I can't begin to tell you how difficult it was to narrow down the fiction readings. That's what I spent most of the night before class doing. It's what I had spent most of break in terms of preparing for this class. I cut some of my favorite stories and others that I really felt would be accessible. Here's a list of finalists that didn't make it:

• "The Scheme of Things" by Charles D'Ambrosio (it literally hurt to cut this one out; everything matters in this story)
• "A Small, Good Thing" by Raymond Carver (one of my all-time favorite stories; a lesson in dramatic irony)
• "Tits-Up in a Ditch" by Annie Proulx (the release of information and structure are masterful)
• "The Testimony of Pilot" by Barry Hannah (one of the greatest first-person, confessionals)
• "Big Me" by Dan Chaon (a story that causes the back of your head to be blown away)
• "Visitation" by Brad Watson (a devastating and beautiful father-son story)
• "The Smile on Happy Chang's Face" by Tom Perotta (contains enough layers to survive a Minnesota winter, in a good way)
• "The Bear Came Over the Mountain" by Alice Munro (compelling; surprising and unexpected plot turns--the excellent movie "Away From Her" was based off this story. But I already had a Munro story)
• "We Didn't" by Stuart Dybek (lyrical and poetic, I completely relate to the narrator's failed attempts at scoring)
• "This is Us, Excellent" by Mark Richard (probably the best ending to a story that's not titled "The Dead"; the perceived image of the carnival ride breaking apart gets me worked up and emotional every time)
• "Deep in the Heart" by David McGlynn (the blend of complex characters and compelling plot is a lesson in how to write a damn good story)
• "Among the Missing" by Paul Yoon (lyrical sentences and beautiful images of setting, Yoon's observations are so novel and precise that you'll find yourself saying, "I never thought of it like that," multiple times)
• "Reunion" by John Cheever (so much power in such a small amount of space)
• "Reunion" by Richard Ford (how imitation can be done effectively and how you only need enough plot with which to hang your characters)
• "Rot" by Joy Williams (it's not about explaining WHY things are the way they are; it's about HOW the characters respond to the circumstances)

I will say this: As difficult as it was to narrow down my fiction reading list, it's the most fun I've had preparing for a class. I feel really fortunate to be able to teach creative writing this semester.

Ed Micus

"Get over your problems, and get to work." -Joan Rivers on happiness

I'm looking forward to the start of the semester. If for nothing else, I'm hoping that being forced to stay busy will help quell the anxiety--over school, yes, but so much more, too--I'm feeling right now. There's a swelling in my chest, a feeling like I accidentally killed someone and while no one knows that I committed this crime, I am consumed with this overwhelming feeling of guilt and can't let go of it.

The obligation to leave my apartment should help me get out of my mind, and hopefully the motivation to complete all my work (on time) will return. My apartment seems as spacious as a cigar box, and every piece of furniture wrecks my back. The weather outside is keeping me in here, though I've forced myself to leave even when I haven't had a valid reason to do so.

Right now I should be working on preparing for my 8am class tomorrow, but it seems like too much. I'm almost there, though. And lately, these midnight sparks of motivation have slapped me in the face and have gotten me (momentarily) back in gear. I'm definitely in need of some slaps to the face. There's no time for wasting and bullshitting from here on out.

Student Evals

I don't put too much stock into the student evaluations. Most of the ones are blank in the write-in section, and if they're all positive I assume they're just trying to be nice or that I've failed as a teacher. Still, I can't help but read what my students have to say about my performance. The winner for best comment this semester was under the section, What are your instructor's strengths/weaknesses? One student wrote: [E]asily relatable[,] but most of the time it seemed like he could give two shits[.] This pretty much confirms what I already knew. I definitely failed this semester. On several levels.

Emerging K-tard Network (Warning: this is a rant)

Yesterday at 6pm, the "city" of Mankato declared a snow emergency. I know because I signed up for the text messaging service. If you don't live in or have never ventured to Mankato (you lucky sons of bitches), a snow emergency is something that absentminded city planners come up with when they're not giving themselves rectal exams.

The idea: when snow accumulation reaches at least three inches on the streets, you're not allowed to park your car on them. This way the plows can remove the snow in one fell swoop. The big problem: the shitheads that came up with this idea didn't consider (or inform the drivers) where all the cars could be moved to. Scratch that. They used to have parking on alternating sides of the street, where you park on this side of the street one night, park on the other the next--we'll call it Dre for short (wait for it). But that was when a lot of the streets were one-ways. This past summer, the shitheads changed most of those to two-ways and then forgot about Dre (there it is). It's kind of a you-deal-with-it sort of solution. A shitty one, at that.

I've let my car sit out front until I've seen the flashing light caravan of tow trucks and snow plows riding down Broad. Then it's a race to get the gear on, get outside, and move the car before I get towed. With Mankato's new we-only-tow-side-streets-after-the-snowfall-has-stopped policy, the chance of a clean break from the curb and the tow trucks diminishes. According to that article, the changes to Mankato's plowing policy have to do with budget cuts. I wonder how much the drivers of the gold Toyota Camry and the green Saturn that collided at the corner of Broad and Walnut could sue the city for because their accident was caused by 1.) the six foot pile of snow on the parkways that blocks the view of any cross-traffic, and 2.) the amount of yet-to-be-cleared snow on the streets that made braking an impossibility. How does that figure into the budget? Because that's the third accident at this intersection since December 30th.

Anyway, once it stops snowing and the emergency has been declared, I hate now knowing when they're going to clear my street. Depending on the time, I don't have anywhere to park my car. According to one of my neighbors, the Wells Fargo parking garage down the street is fair game between 7pm and 6am. Last night I decided to give that a go, but I couldn't help but worry if this was the night where Wells Fargo would say, "Nuh-uh. You can't park here." I'm basing the okay on (at the very least) second-hand intel. I parked there anyway, because just like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentlemen, I had nowhere else to go.

Just before midnight, my street hadn't been plowed. If I hadn't had (unconfirmed) access to the garage, where would I have been able to park for that long? This "city" is not very big, and these huge fucking plows they use clear the streets in two or three passes. Especially when no one is parked on them. What's taking so long? I know that not everyone moves, and they either plow those cars under or wait. There's also traffic. Yes, I know these things. But if that's the case, why start the snow emergency during "rush hour"? Traffic after seven on days like this is pretty minimal in Mankato. If they're willing to let the snow collect on the streets for as long as they do, why not wait a little longer? Maybe I'm oversimplifying this whole thing.

It got pretty late, close to 4, and I had two options: stay up until the plows clear the road, or wake up early to do the same thing. Either way, I needed to be out of the parking garage by 6am. My mind had shut off, so getting work done was out of the question. I decided to stay up late, so I watched a movie on Hulu. Hardcore with George C. Scott. (Damn good movie; thoughts on it at a later date.) Around 5am, I looked outside and saw that the roads hadn't been cleared. There were, however, three cars parked on my street. I couldn't stay awake any longer and went outside to scope out the situation.

The street was clear around these three cars, and there was enough room between two of them for my car to fit. I was under the impression that if the roads have been cleared during the snow emergency, you could park on the street. So I moved my car from the garage into this free space and went back to my apartment, ready for bed. Then, at six am, on the threshold of sleep, the plow came by. I separated the blinds to check on the progress. Two passes and the road looked slick and smooth. Where I parked, though, a three inch tall mound of snow outlined the row of cars. By no means was this enough snow to be considered plowed in. The outline didn't even push up against any of the car tires. If they were to tow my car, I totally would have been able to fight it. I tried falling asleep, but couldn't. Even if I would win the fight, my car still could be towed, and I didn't want to go through the hassle of reclaiming it and going to a government office on a day when I needed to get shit done before the semester starts. So I put on all my gear, went outside, and moved my car to a clear spot on my side of the street.

Sho 'nuff, the next day all three of those cars got towed so the plows could clear out the outline of snow. This was one time when my paranoia paid off. But seriously, that's complete bullshit that they towed those cars. I'm guessing the city's trying to recoup some of the cost of having to pay the plows, what with all the budget cuts and shit. I know budget cuts are necessary when the economy's in the shitter, but plowing the roads in a town that might as well be in the arctic seems like a priority to me. We shouldn't have to pay for these operating costs at the expense of our cars, our time, and our worry. The fact that it took them 24 hours to clear all the downtown streets in Mankato--Man-fucking-kato, not Manhattan or even a real city--after going through all this snow emergency bullshit is ricockulous. I'd like to go make yellow ice all over the street, but the current temperature is -15 and I fear my sidekick has already holed up inside for the evening. Fuck everything about you, Mankato.

The Class of 2010

We remember Cubs baseball in 1987. Maybe not the specific details of individual games, but we remember what it meant to hear the announcer call Andre Dawson's name. It signified a good chance for runs to be driven in, for fastballs to soar onto Waveland. We remember our dads whooping and hollering the most guttural cheers when he was announced prior to the first pitch of the All-Star Game. We yelped along, too.

When we played baseball in the Fultz's backyard--usually three of us: two teams of one and an all-time pitcher, the ghost runners waiting on the base paths--we all wanted to be Andre Dawson. The Hawk. And when one of us had to settle and be Ryne Sandberg, we'd grunt, we'd complain, we'd wish we got to be Hawk. We all imitated his stance at the plate, our elbows raised above our chests, tilting the bat slightly toward the pitcher. We kept our back heel off the ground, dug the toe of our shoe into the dirt. We tried to stare down the pitcher. It always seemed to work.

When we'd crack one onto the Shamsi's back porch--our home run fence--we'd trot around the bases like we had been there before. No cheering, no clapping, no celebration. Because that's the way Hawk did it. After crossing home plate, we'd always give a curtain call. Because that's what Chicago fans demanded after he hit a home run. If we made a diving catch or pegged a guy out at home from the outfield, we always played the role of announcer afterward: "And Dawson throws out another runner! Ho-ly Cow!"

We remember Andre Dawson as a source of intimidation who was feared by the opposition, loved and respected by fans. He remember the home runs, the laser beam throws from right field, and the way he tossed his body around even though his knees were torn to shreds. He didn't need to be inducted into the Hall of Fame for us to remember him. But it's nice to know that we weren't the only ones who appreciated the way he played the game.

Out of the Blue, Into the Black

In the past month, two light bulbs have burnt out in my bathroom. First it was one of the 24" florescents along side the mirror, then the overhead bulb kicked it. On New Year's day, when the sun set at around 2pm, I flicked on the light switch in the kitchen. Two of the three bulbs in my "chandelier" didn't respond. They were dead. Later in the afternoon, I tried to turn on the light in my bedroom, only to hear the all too familiar sound of a light bulb zapping out. At this point, the short list of working lights included the floor lamp in the living room, the other florescent in the bathroom, one overhead bulb in the kitchen, and the little guy in the fridge. Everywhere I turned, it seemed the lights were going out. So I did the next logical thing. I made a bowl of Campbell's Chicken and Sausage Gumbo in relative darkness.

When it comes to heating up a can of soup, I can get impatient. I don't use the stove, I prefer nuking that shit. The microwave I have is quite powerful. It's a 1000 watts of nut-sterilizing power. The only problem with it is that the turntable inside doesn't work. I don't think it's worked for close to ten years. Which means I've got to turn the soup bowl halfway through the cook time in order for it to heat evenly. It didn't fully occur to me at the time, but when I moved the bowl it wasn't very warm. I anticipated it being hot and gave it a quick touch. When it turned out not to be hot, I attributed it to the calluses on my fingers. They're thick, and I usually feel next to nothing. It's like having a layer of scotch tape over them, my own little pot holders.

A bowl of soup usually cooks in about two minutes and forty-five seconds. I grabbed the bowl with actual pot holders, gave the soup a stir, and dug in. The Gumbo was lukewarm, at best. I didn't think anything of it, just popped the bowl back in the microwave for another minute. When the timer beeped, I grabbed the bowl and did the temp test--a finger poke in the middle of the bowl, expecting to get burned. Again, it wasn't hot at all. I decided, inadvertently, to put my intelligence to the test by repeating this process for the next five minutes, while standing directly in front of the microwave. It wasn't until I crouched down and watched the bowl in the microwave that I noticed there wasn't any steam curling from the surface of the soup. That's when it finally hit me: the microwave's broke. Sharp as a spoon.

I don't know if I've ever gone without a microwave before. This is strange and bizarre territory. I'm thinking about letting it rest for a few days and firing it up again. Maybe it just got a little stressed. Works as a raised shelf/timer combo, I guess. But I think it still has some power. Standing in front of the thing for as long as I did caused some minor pain in my testicles--at least, that's what I'm attributing the source of the pain to. If they learn how to open doors on their own, I'll try to warn people before it's too late. But I won't make any promises, since I can barely see in here.

I'm on drugs! (I wish...)

My back has been acting up since late November. When it's bad, it locks up and sends a jolt of electricity down my left leg. I can tell my spine's out of alignment when the pain gets this bad. If I had health insurance, or extra cash, I'd go to the chiropractor. There's one a block from my apartment. Since I have neither of these things, I take aspirin and perform a variety of exercises that I'd never do in public. Like pelvic thrusts. Nothing says pathetic like an out-of-shape twenty-eight year-old, humping the air and wheezing. And since I gots no rhythm or stamina, anyone unfortunate enough to see me do this would hurl quicker than if they had chugged a bottle of Ipecac. My moves are that fucking sexy.

Recently, though, my back pain has felt less spinal and more muscular. I think it has been directly related to the amount of stress and anxiety I've been carrying. Lots of shit to get done this semester. Lots of shit happening outside of school, too. This is where the aspirin has really come through. Bayer Back & Body, I love you. The pain dissolves within ten minutes of popping a couple of these bad boys. The reason: caffeine. That, and each pill has 500mg of aspirin in it. Money's tight, though, so I recently had to settle for HyVee brand aspirin. The differences are very apparent.

The HyVee brand has no added ingredients, which means no caffeine. I'm in pain in now, pills. How about you start working ten fucking minutes ago. Oh, and when it does kick in, it's nothing to cheer about. As pain-free as the old swab test. But the most ridiculous thing about HyVee aspirin? When you peel back the label to check for dosages, and active ingredients, there's a warning that says, "Do not take if you are allergic to aspirin." This is the generic shit, so the front label says ASPIRIN in bold, black letters. I could understand if it were a brand and the active drug wasn't easily identifiable by the name. But who needs a warning label to tell them not to take aspirin if they're allergic when the brand name is HyVee Aspirin? And under the peel-off label? Fuck you, HyVee. If I can't peel that shit off in the store, how will I be warned not to take something I'm allergic to?

I miss the Vicodin. Ran out of those little gems soon after my lower back started barking at me. They also helped me relax and fall asleep. Which surprised me because the last time I had them I felt like I was building up a tolerance for them. They don't compare to Demerol, though. Have you ever tried Demerol. Holy welcomed addiction, Batman. I could see myself getting hooked on this shit if I had health insurance. The last time I took it, my body melted into the floor like I was the T-1000 from Terminator 2.

It completely calms you down and sends you drifting into a worry-free parallel dimension. My favorite thing to do is fight the urge to sleep, since this stuff will put you down within twenty minutes of taking it. You almost feel the Demerol kick into another gear, ensuring that it knocks you out. The minute I get a real job--one that either provides health insurance, or pays well enough so I can go out and purchase it--I'm going to start getting reckless. Running on ice, jumping off the roof of my apartment, walking blindfolded into traffic: I'll do it all with the hope that I get seriously injured, resulting in a big fat script for the big D.

I know what you're thinking: why don't you just buy it illegally? Shouldn't be that hard to find. Brad from across the street probably has a pretty healthy stash. But I say no to that. I play by the rules. Plus, it's more expensive to buy it from a dealer, and you know how much of a cheap prick I am. Brad would probably give it to me for a few comic books, but then I'd have to help him act out a scene from the Dark Knight.

He'd bind my ankles and hoist me up the VFW's flagpole. I'd dangle upside-down, and he'd yell for me to laugh maniacally like I was the Joker. Then, he'd spit out a line in his best Batman voice, jump for joy--in the process, letting go of the rope--and then I'd fall, land on my head, and break my neck. If I were to survive, yes, I'd get my Demerol. But at what cost? Brad would make an extreme effort to hang out, which means he'd probably let his pet raccoons crawl all over me. And if I'm paralyzed, there would be nothing I could do about that. No, dammit. There's an order of operations to follow, here. First get health insurance. Then get injured. THEN get the big D.