I'm Not Dead

(Image belongs entirely to Allie Brosh. I just think it's pretty.)

If my life could be summed up in five words, they would be "Of fucking course it did". This is generally the phrase I turn to whenever things fuck up, and believe me, they fuck up.

So after a week of throwing up, fever dreams and various other unpleasantries that carried over into my trip to Toronto, I decided that this shit would not fly. I decided to go to the hospital on a whim, hoping to clear up whatever exactly the fuck was wrong with me. They pulled me in for an observation and asked what was wrong with me, to which I replied by grabbing the waste basket and heaving.

I like to think that was pretty self-explanatory.

The rest of the day was spent turning me into a goddamn pincushion, x-raying me and voiding the contents of my stomach. For the most part, everything was pretty tolerable until they brought in the fucking nose tube. Needless to say, when a doctor comes up to you with an unbearably large tube, telling you that he needs to shove this up your nose and into your stomach, fucking run. That voice in the back of your head saying that it won't fit in your nostril? It's right. And it's going to continue being right even as the doctor feeds the damn thing down your esophagus and you sob and gag uncontrollably while you pray for it to just please God make it stop.

It was at this point, as I sat there completely discombobulated and wondering why there was a straw jutting out of my nostril, that Dr. V walked in. Dr. V was one of those classically beautiful women, with the black curls, the pale complexion and the perfectly refined bone structure that makes it appear as if she walked off the set of Some Like It Hot. I suppose this made it easier for her to tell me that I had a strangulated hernia; bad news is just easier to handle when the bearer is pretty. For those of you wondering, a strangulated hernia is when part of the colon gets attached to the mesh used to repair the abdominal wall. This results in the large intestine clogging up and...You know what, I'm just going to stop right there. Believe me, there's more to it, but it's-It's just fucking unpleasant and it makes you feel absolutely horrible all over.

And the kicker in all of this? According to Dr. V, strangulated hernias are a complication that arise in only one in 35,000 hernia operations. That's less 00.003%. This is a nice way of saying that God essentially just bitchslapped me in the face.

The surgery went well (or at the very least, I'm assuming it did; I wasn't exactly lucid through most of it) and when I came too I was surrounded by my enormous family, which as it turns out would be something of a running theme throughout the week. Thankfully, as we all know family is much more tolerable when you're tripping balls on morphine. This would be another running theme throughout the week.

Oh, and just to top off my complete loss of dignity and/or self-respect: They stuck a catheter in me while I was out. In all honesty, while I'm generally very good at sticking things into openings they usually don't go, I tend to draw the line at sounding; things are not supposed to go up my peehole. But there it was: a tube jammed up my cock. And just in case you're wondering: Why yes, it is unbearably painful when you take it out! I'm not going to lie, I cried a little.

The next week (yes, week) was spent in the hospital with all of one book and a TV with about five English channels. I walked around a little, I slowly regained control of my insides, and I got jabbed with needles. Now, for the record, I'm terrified of needles. Well, that might be a bit general; I'm terrified of intravenous needles. There's a big difference. You see, tattoo needles only go about 1/4 of an inch deep into your skin. All in all, not too bad. Piercing needles go through a thin layer of skin, and most importantly, don't go through any big arteries or veins. Once again, A-okay. HOWEVER, needles go right into your fucking bloodstream, and then they introduce new shit into your bloodstream. This does not fucking sit well for me. Not that it stopped the nurses from teasing me about my inability to go through a blood test without squirming uncomfortably.

Speaking of the nurses, they were amazing. Actually, the hospital in general was pretty amazing. And the food was one of those room service deals where you could order down to the kitchen off of a giant ass menu full of amazing food whenever you wanted. For free. God bless socialized healthcare. That being said, I was really only too happy to get the hell out of there.

So where does this leave me? Well, it'll be another two or three weeks before my body is back to normal. I lost a ton of weight, which I worked my ass off in the gym to pack on (I'm not saying it was that much, but I'm still proud dammit!) I decided to go off my vegetarian diet at least until my body is back to it's regular fighting shape. And I can't attend the Canada's Next Top Porn Star competition hosted by Falcon, Colt and Next Door Studios that was going on up here in Montreal since my stomach looks like I got into a knife fight, which quite frankly just depresses me since I was really looking forward to it for the past couple weeks. Sooooooo...Yeah. Sad Panda. But whatever, no one ever got anything done by sitting around and complaining about a shitty hand. Looks like it's time to rebuild myself again.

I dunno...Jeremy Feist 2.0?

Post-Surgery Blues: Blue-Balled

I haven't came in five days. There, I said it!

Honestly, this is a bit worrisome to me, as I like to make sure I drop a fresh batch of fellow-jello at least once a day, for the sake of both physical and mental health. Twice if I'm feeling fresh and spontaneous, but let's not fly off the handle here.

The reason for this is twofold: First, considering that I've been surrounded by family and sleeping on my brothers' beds for the past little while, jacking off has been something of a no-no. Second...well, I'm paranoid. Ever since my surgery, my balls have been swinging a little lower and freer than usual, and I've entirely convinced myself that this has something to do with going under the knife, and that any ejaculation will somehow fuck up my precious, precious vas deferens. I'm just going to chalk this one up to my hypochondria, an illness that I still think is something of a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Thankfully, nothing much else has been happening, since I've been staying with my father rather than my mother, which means the crazy bitch isn't actively trying to kill me. But I love the psychotic S.O.B. anyway.

Anyway, I did get tagged in one of those Facebook poll thingies, so I figured I might as well tag it onto the rest of the post because I can and shut up your face, I'm doing it. Normally, I'd also jokingly add something like "Suck my balls!", but...Well, see above.

Put your iPod/music player on random, and answer these questions, one at a time, using the song titles. Then add one of your own questions at the end. No cheating and skipping songs, unless they're instrumental.

1. What do you think of me, iTunes?
"Cheated Hearts" by Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

You know you're love life is severely fucked when an unfeeling computer program pities you.

2. Will I have a happy life?
"Little Favours" by KT Tunstall.

So basically, I'm going to spend the rest of my life doing pain-in-the-ass favours for others? Yeah, actually, that sounds about right.

3. What do my friends really think of me?
"Almost Lover" by A Fine Frenzy.

I'd like to thank my iPod for REALLY rubbing it in at this point.

4. Do people secretly lust after me?
"Can't Get Enough" by Mary J. Blige.

Hey, I may have the shittiest love life ever, but at least I'm pretty!

5. What does my crush/lover/S.O. think of me?
"Nothing & Nowhere" by Emily Haines and The Soft Skeleton.

This would hurt so much more if I were still capable of feeling things in my heart.

6. How can I make myself happy?
"Take It Back" by She & Him.

I'm not sure who tagged me in this thing to begin with, but...Why?

7. What should I do with my life?
"Dreamworld" by Rilo Kiley

I'm just going to assume that this means "Porn".

8. Why must life be so full of pain?
"Oh My God" by Pink.

This is the most soul-crushing Facebook quiz ever.

9. How can I maximize my pleasure during sex?
"Anyone Else But You" by Ellen Page and Michael Cera

SOUL. CRUSHED.

10. Will I ever have children?
"Get Gone" by Fiona Apple.

My iTunes is actively trying to kill me.

11. Will I die happy?
"Got Money" by Lil Wayne.

Well, at least I'll be rich...Wait, rich people don't die!

12. Can you give me some advice?
"Adventure" by Be Your Own Pet.

Hey, works plenty well for me, thank you very much.

13. What do you think happiness is?
"Neighbourhood #4: 7 Kettles" by The Arcade Fire.

Actually, I do sort of have a thing for kettles. What? They're adorable and tea is delicious.

14. What's your favourite fetish?
"Firewalker" by Liz Phair.

In all honesty, I really do want to try this one eventually. MAKE IT HAPPEN, BITCHES.


15. Will I get a good job?
"I've Got To See You Again" by Norah Jones.

Okay, so so far, the message my iTunes is trying to tell me: You are a hollow shell, heartbroken shell of a human being, but you are hot, so do lots of porn. Honestly, it kinda balances itself out, doesn't it?


16. What will the day be like tomorrow?
"Ode to Divorce" by Regina Spektor.

Actually, considering that tomorrow is Mother's Day and my parents have what can only be described as murderous rage towards each other, this makes a lot of sense.

17. What awaits for me this summer?
"Personal" by Stars.

Oh, of course; NOW you decide to start holding out on me. Fuck you, iTunes, you cockteasing whore.

Post-Surgery Blues: My Mother, The Bitch

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As it turns out, having someone cut you open and fuck about with your insides tends to screw up certain bodily functions. And by that, I mean I've been having some "intestinal distress", which quite frankly just irritates me to no fucking end. To those of you who have never spent half an hour in the bathroom with a copy of Sarah Silverman's "The Bedwetter", waiting on something to happen that most people can do without so much as a second thought...Well, it's pretty much the most depressing thing ever.

This was in no way helped by my mother. Now, for those who don't know her, my mother is clinically insane, and sincerely enjoys fucking with us for her own amusement. It's called the bitch gene, and yes, it is genetic. Case in point: While I was in the bathroom praying for my insides to resume their regular functioning, she decided to hide in my bed until I got back, then scare the living shit out of me. For someone who just got out of abdominal surgery, this is what is known as a terrible fucking idea.

This didn't stop my mother from (A) doing exactly that, and (B) laughing hysterically while I was doubled-over on the floor, feeling like someone had just jabbed me in the stomach with a rusty screwdriver.

But in all seriousness, I love the crazy whore.

Speaking of my mother, in my efforts to return to normal, I decided to try and leave the house and go to the mall and pick up a gift for my mother. As it turns out, when you're bloated and stitched up, your jeans don't actually fit. Who knew? So of course, I spent a full hour and a half doing my best granny-shuffle through the suburbs of Pointe-Claire while feeling like someone in their third fucking trimester.

This wasn't made any better when I got home, showered, removed my bandage and looked down at my stitched-up stomach to discover that my belly button was now practically non-existant. As in the top half was still perfectly in tact, while the bottom half was completely gone. It wasn't so much a belly button as it was a tiny little dent in my stomach. Fantastic.

For now though, I need to go eat my feelings and self-medicate some more. Apparently, these painkillers don't treat emotional pain. Woohoo?