"But ah'm not afraid of dyin'. Cause I know that when I get to heaven there are gonna be these wonderful trees, and ah'm gonna climb them. But you know what? Instead of leaves and flowers, those trees are gonna have fried eggs, and delicious Virginia ham, and big heaping bowls of biscuits and sausage gravy. And one day, Sammy, you're gonna meet me there, and we're gonna climb those breakfast trees together, and it's gonna be delicious and we're gonna be happy until the end of time."


Put away that crack pipe put some make-up on that bruise....

School's out. I work three hours a day, four days a week (though am casually on the prowl for something better). I've essentially stopped going out (by my standards), and I've had one beer and three sips of scotch in the past two weeks. I certainly can't claim the lack of time to post these days, but I am starved for material. One reason I don't post much these days is my desire to avoid turning this into The "Headache: Day 220" blog.
For those of you playing along at home it is, indeed, Day 220. I counted. Just now. Whilst waiting for the Darvocet to kick in. My new plan of attack is getting my wisdom teeth removed on Monday morning in the hopes that they will:
  • get the fuck out of my sinus cavity
  • get the fuck out of the nerve bundle in my jaw
  • relieve some of the pressure in my head
  • give the voodoo priestess (next on the list) something to work with
I have a lot of anxiety about this whole wisdom tooth thing. I've never been put under, but I'm not so much worried about that as I am about waking up in the middle of the carnage, which, from the anecdotes I've been given, happens all the damn time. Seriously, why do they pay the anesthesiologist so much if he/she can't even keep you down? Ripoff. Plus, I'm not encouraged when the doctor hands me the two page list of serious risks, tells me to initial by each one, and then informs me this is usually just a formality, but actually created for cases just like mine. Cases involving nerves and sinus cavities and roots and teeth that have been through the gum for seven years. Sweet.
I used to think I was cool because I still had all my original parts. Tonsils? Check. Appendix? Check. I had a good run.

Oh Bitch, bitch, bitch. After the They Might Be Giants show last Thursday night, I said I wouldn't mind if I died as a result of this operation, because it was all downhill after that show anyway. I heard "Fingertips" performed live, and I don't really need to go on living after that. Anticlimactic. Despite being sick and achey all week, I went and I danced, and sang and jumped around like I was twelve. Where TMBG is concerned, I will always be twelve.
I've been in that mood all week. Netflix brought disc 1, season 1 of The Adventures of Pete and Pete this week, a show I hadn't seen since its original run, but which I watched religiously. I was convinced I was going to marry Big Pete and have awkward red-headed frecklebabies. I knew I was in for a trip down memory lane when I put it in the queue, but I was entirely unprepared for the opening strains of Hey Sandy by Polaris. It unlocked a whole pocket of tweenitude long since quashed by the ripening of adolescence and subsequent rot of adulthood. I had to forcibly hold back the torrent of giddy tears it almost unleashed. I got the uncontrollable urge to experiment with makeup, prank-call boys, and obsess over who to marry in civics class. And those all felt like good things.

So this week I'm going to ride that wave. I'm twelve. I don't drink, I don't go out. It's summer vacation and I babysit a little to keep me in nailpolish. I'm a little freaked out about this surgery thing, but my concepts of pain and mortality aren't fully crystalized yet, so I'm not losing any sleep. All I know is I love They Might Be Giants, Pete and Pete, and I have a huge crush on this guy, Matt.