Single Thread of Sanity

Hello, my fellow internet dwellers. I feel that I should let everyone know that I AM SKIPPING MY GERMAN CLASS TODAY, AGAIN

JUST TRY AND STOP ME



There! I've said it, it's out there, now let me justify WHY. Brace yourselves--I'll do my best to keep shit from getting real, because I know how you all don't like that real shit. You come here for the nonsensical verbiage and amusing gifs, not for the serious ramblings of a college student!

And so! What on earth would compel me to skip such an important class? I'll try to explain, and in order to do that, there's an important distinction that needs to be made: handling stress is not the same thing as being stress free!




!! SHARP INTAKE OF BREATH !!






I know, how even. But that's the truth. It's printed in a book somewhere, so I have legitimate sources. "Somewhere" is the key word in that sentence, as in, not here, meaning, I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE IF YOU CAN'T FIND THAT BOOK.

So now that we know the difference, let me say this: I am pretty good at handling stress! But at the same time, I am very, very stressed. A lot.

The problem with this is--wait for it--MY PRIDE. Cue the single shining tear of stereotypically manly strength rolling down my cheek like a liquid diamond catching the last glint of the rays of dusk.

What.



Yes, yes, we've covered this before. My pride is both my strength and my weakness. It's what gets me through the day, and it's what keeps me from asking for HELP to get through the day. That's about the crappiest personality trait ever. It's like the Captain Marvel Jr. of personality traits.

If you don't get that reference: Captain Marvel Jr. gets his superpowers by saying "Captain Marvel", but if he says his name again, he LOSES his superpowers. So imagine if you will...

"Oh my goodness, you just saved my life! Who are you?"

 "I'm Captain MarvelOH SHIT GOD DAMNIT FFUUUUUUUUUUU."

Also what.

And that's kinda how my pride works. It's what makes me feel awesome, but when I have to mention it in defense of my not asking for help or whatever--or even just to ask for help at ALL-- it's what makes me feel awful. And so I generally don't!

So you have no idea how much it pains me to actually admit that THINGS HAVE NOT BEEN SWELL WITH ME LATELY. I have no right to complain at all because there is so much shit, so much that is just GREATER THAN ME going on in the world right now, but damnit, there is a patchwork of strong faces and forced smiles that has been holding me to sanity, and right now there is ONE SINGLE THREAD.

AND THAT THREAD IS FRAYING. The hand that is the reality of how much the world and the people in it SUCK has come down on my head hard this year, and all I can do is overreact and flail wildly about.



Yeah, like that.

Regardless! The point of all this rambling is to show that, hey, we all have tough times, and WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH SKIPPING MY GERMAN CLASS.

It has everything to do with it! I was stressed, and didn't want to admit it. Going to German would have made me even MORE stressed, because:

1) It's almost two hours long. +10 stress points
2) The class itself is incredibly small, which makes it really awkward when you don't know the answer, which is always. +15 stress points
3) It's Tuesday. +5 stress points
4) I didn't understand the homework. +30 stress points.
5) Because I didn't understand the homework, I wouldn't have understood anything in class, and thus would have been fretting about all the time I was wasting by being there and not learning. +50 stress points
6) I hate everything right now. +all the stress points



I was alright for my first two classes. I was getting by. But when I came home for the break between Chemistry and German, I found that it was a MESS. The coffee table is completely covered in like a poster board thing and I don't even know what. The kitchen sink is full of dishes, and the dishes are full of grody food water. There are puddles on the countertops that I'm not entirely sure are water. Something exploded in the microwave and was left to turn into a rock. The bathroom trash is so full that it's spilling out onto the floor. AND...AND...AND ALL THE THINGS. JUST. ALL THE TIME. ALWAYS A MESS. WHY ME.



And all of this, in the SINGLE DAY that I was gone since yesterday. Why. No--how.

Distraught and overcome with the unexpected tragedy that has been my moving-out experience, there was only one thing I could think to do: make a mini film documenting my pain, for your enjoyment.

HAHA. Yes.





Ok, so maybe I made this out to be a lot more devastating than it actually was. In my defense, the video does not do this masterpiece mess justice. THE PUDDLES. YOU COULDN'T SEE THE PUDDLES.

It's only the kitchen in the video, but that's because I had to stop midway to prevent myself from sobbing uncontrollably. HA, GET IT? It's funny because I actually DID end up sobbing uncontrollably two weeks ago! Remember?!

Well you SHOULDN'T. Erase it from your minds. IT NEVER HAPPENED ;;;

But no, no, in all honesty, I'm feeling much better now. And I actually did have a legitimate reason for skipping German OTHER than the fact that I couldn't deal with it--I now have extra time to study for the European History exam this Friday, the Chemistry exam next Monday, the speaking final for German (which going to class wouldn't have helped!) next Tuesday and the presentation worth 10% of my final grade for Latin American Culture next Wednesday--which my group members STILL HAVEN'T EVEN LOOKED AT.

Ok, I take it back. I'm NOT feeling much better.

Remedying this with good music and writing. And studying, yknow, some more later. ALSO I just remembered that I have Red Bull for the week!

I justify my addiction by saying that at least it's not alcohol--and also that I DO WHAT I WANT.

So CHEERS, and here's to the morning. May it be awesome and wonderful and everything that today is not.

Gimp Toe 2: Electric Boogaloo

I should be writing for NaNoWriMo right now. But I'm at almost 30,000 words, and so I think that gives me enough time to take a moment to FINALLY recount to you all the stunning sequel to my last story, The Terrifying Tale of the Gimp Toe.

Keep in mind, again, that these stories are only INSPIRED by real events. Yes, I went to the doctor to fix my toe, no, it was not a sentient gimp toe.

So without further ado, it brings me great pride (or shame? I can't tell the difference anymore) to bring you Gimp Toe 2: Electric Boogaloo.

--

Most stories end rather poorly. Good stories end well. And great stories? Well, great stories never really end, do they?

But oh, how I wish they would.

It had been a week since the epic battle with Gimp Toe. It hadn't been easy, of course. The first attack had been the silver nitrate, cauterizing it to a weakened state, but that hadn't been enough. The final, fatal blow had ultimately been delivered via freakin-needle-straw and scissors. I felt fine. I felt great. Surely, surely that was the end of it all. I didn't need to look under that bandage. I knew it was gone. No, there was no reason to look. And so I didn't.

I went about my week as usual. Classes started up again, I took a few tests, all was well and dandy. From a distance, I looked like any normal person would. I was happy, enjoying the joyous feeling of a hero's victory. I was the wacky cop at the end of a buddy-cop movie, eating that jelly-filled donut I'd been talking about for the whole movie but was never able to have because my stoic stone-faced partner kept going like "No man no donuts on the job god you're such a stereotype why they gotta put me with you man what'd I ever do to deserve this I hate you get out of my car seriously I don't care if we're in the middle of traffic get out".

The fight had been fought, the battle won. Donut time.

But there was something off. I was forgetting something. What was it? Everything seemed to be fine, to be over. I was finally getting my life back together. What was missing?

It hit me.

I had forgotten a very important rule.

The cardinal rule of boss fights.

They always have three phases.

The realization hit me like that swinging pendulum from that one episode of America's Next Top Model where the models had to walk a runway with that freakin giant swinging pendulum. You know the one. Man, that shit was dope.

Unlike this shit. This shit was gimp.

I rushed home. I ran, the whole way fighting back the biting pain now growing in my shoe. The toe had awakened now. It was like this was the Peruvian temple with that golden idol, and I was Indiana Jones trying to freakin steal it. I had taken the idol, and this was my freakin boulder rolling after me as a consequence, and I was like nooooo freakin boulder why gotta be like that! I just wanted to totally steal your shit and now you gotta be rollin after me? And the boulder is just like THEY SEE ME ROLLIN

THEY HATIN

PATROLLING, THEY TRYIN TO CATCH ME RIDING DIRTY

What I'm getting at is that Gimp Toe felt like a boulder.

I ran into my apartment, turned frantically around and locked the door. Stupid, Gimp Toe isn't chasing me. It's a part of me. I just locked myself in here with it. Way to be in college, genius.
 
Didn't matter. At this point I knew I couldn't be saved. All I could do now was try to protect the others from Gimp Toe. With bated breath, I barricaded myself into the bathroom to investigate the toe. If something went down, like a fight, or dinosaurs, or World War 3, or dinosaurs, did I already say dinosaurs?

High likelihood of dinosaurs

--regardless, it would be contained here, in this room.

I looked at the toe. It was still covered in that bandage, the horrors beneath hidden from view. I took a sharp breath and held it in, mostly for dramatic effect.

I reached down to the bandage. Took hold of the corner. Slowly, slowly.

I pulled the bandage off. What I saw elicited the following thought process:

OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD WHAT THE SHIT IS THIS

IS THIS THE DEVIL

I THINK THIS IS THE DEVIL

What I saw was almost beyond my comprehension. It was like looking at a box of crayons after all the good colors have been taken. There was brown and yellow and purple and white and all the colors that should never, ever be on a toe. Except as nail polish I guess. But even then, no, because those are just terrible colors.

I released the breath I forgot I'd been holding, and it came out as a hiss of pain. There was a sense of urgency overpowering me. Urgent, urgent, this is urgent shit. My next course of action, then, would be to go to another urgent care clinic. Except NO. I was finished with urgent care clinics. Urgent care clinics were like diet soda to me. Like, you want something fizzy and bubbly, but you have no legit soda in the house, so you settle for a diet soda, and then you're left sipping this abomination of a drink thinking to yourself why, why am i drinking this, why am i STILL drinking this, seriously this is a waste of my life and i--ew i just realized i drank all of it why was this even allowed to happen, ok, no more diet soda, ever again, ok, FROM NOW ON.

I lowered the foot down to the floor, and it glared at me. If toes could glare, it just did. Go home, Gimp Toe. Just go home to whatever terrible evil place you came from. Nobody likes you. Most of them hate you, actually. Get out.

Though sentient, Gimp Toe had yet to develop a mouth (thank god) and thus could not speak in reply. Still, if it could, I imagine it would have yelled back at me in a ghetto accent, talking about how it does what it wants and doesn't give a shit what anyone thought of it, haters gonna hate, it's gonna take over the world like a boss and then what? everyone's gonna be gimp as shit and then who'll be laughing? Nobody, cause when you're gimp as shit, you only laugh at the wrong time, like when someone says something really serious and you're just like HA HA HA WHOA MAN WHOA YOU BE HILARIOUS, and they're like "My dog just died wtf is wrong with you", and they'll be like DUNNO MAN I'M GIMP AS SHIT. AND NOW YOU ARE TOO.


Zap. Gimpified. Didn't even see that coming, did you? No one will. This it the world as it would be under the rule of Gimp Toe. Hide yo kids, hide yo wives, AND hide yo husbands, cause they be gimpin ERRBAWDY out here.

Whoa. What? I realized then what had just happened. Gimp Toe couldn't talk, but it could talk to me, in it's own way. Another realization. Another skipped heartbeat.

That was it. This was the whole point. Gimp Toe couldn't take over the world on it's own. It needed a vessel.

Me.

I scrambled back, away from nothing in particular. It was useless, of course, as Gimp Toe was connected to my foot. Damn you Gimp Toe. Damn you and all your hopes and dreams!

I knew, then, that if I stood any chance of defeating Gimp Toe once and for all, I was going to need help. And not just decent help.

I needed the best of the best.


A podiatrist. 

If urgent care clinics were diet soda, a podiatrist was freakin Red Bull. If urgent care clinics were faulty-brake Toyotas, a podiatrist was a freakin Ferrari. If urgent care clinics were GOD, then a podiatrist was the thing that freakin MADE GOD.

It took some effort, but I managed to get ahold of one and explain the severity of my situation:

"Hi, I'm calling to make an appointment."

"Okay, what seems to be the problem."

"Well, you see, I...I have...GIMP TOE."

"OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD WHY HOW IS THIS EVEN OH MY GOD OH MY GOD."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"

"Ok we can see you at 4."

And so I went. And waited. 4 o clock rolled around and it was time. I was ushered into an examination room, and the Red Bull-Ferrari-God-Maker walked in.

This time, I knew the drill. Or at least, I thought I did. This was phase three, after all, and required all the big guns.

Step number one? Bitch slap Gimp Toe in the face.

Not even joking. Legit bitch slapping occurred. The Red Bull-Ferrari-God-Maker withdrew a strange weapon I had never seen before, placed it over Gimp Toe, and bitch slapped it.

There. Gimp Toe had been sufficiently humiliated and step two could now be carried out. Freakin needle-straw? Go. Sharp pain erupted from the site of injection as Gimp Toe fought viciously back against the attack. This time, I heard it's cries.

no what the shit this stuff sucks i hate it forever man the first thing i'm doing as Lord Gimp Ruler of Gimp Earth is gimpifying this shit up to high hell. I say high hell because I'm going to put hell on top of the world and heaven below it. No real reason. Just to be a total dick. ah man i can't feel my face. i just freakin grew that face too. shit sucks

The pain ebbed back, slowly. I was left to wait for the freakin needle-straw to take full effect. I think we've established that waiting completely jacks up my perception of time, so I won't go over that again.

When the Red-Bull-Ferrari-God-Maker returned, it was time. RBFGM withdrew a pair of scissors. Something was different about these scissors. They were special somehow, stronger and almost...legendary. The urgent care scissors were like the Kokiri sword. These scissors? The goddamn Master Sword. 

The scissors set to work. Unlike before, this time there was pain. I died inside, and then I died again, and once more, and then a little while after I thought "Ok, I've already died this many times, what's one more time?"

I died again and then it was over. The pain cut off as if it had been a waterfall and someone had just went up and punched it so hard that the water stopped falling. I sat up and breathed for the first time in what felt like ages. I leaned forward.

RBFGM held out the pair of scissors, and clamped between the blades was the root of the problem/ Gimp Toe's life source. The brain stem of the horror that had been plaguing my foot for I couldn't even remember how long.

A long, jagged splinter of toenail, twisted and bloody. At the base of the nail piece was the abomination of skin that had only seconds before been Gimp Toe. Gimp Toe, Lord Gimp Ruler of Gimp Earth, now just a piece of biohazard trash. Plink, into the trash bucket. In all honesty, skin shouldn't have made a plink sound upon hitting the trash can, but at that point I didn't care.

I didn't have to care. Now, for certain, it was over. I could finally say that and feel like an honest man--woman, thing. Whatever. All that mattered was that I was Gimp Toe free.

RBFGM wrote a prescription for anti-Gimp medication, a kind of magical ward meant to prevent the return of Gimp Toe. Or maybe it was like, science or something? Whatever, man. Whatever.

I don't even care anymore.

I slipped my shoe back on. The pressure was normal, ordinary, healthy. I took a step forward.

Toward home. Toward life.

Toward freedom.

--

AND THERE YOU HAVE IT FOLKS WHAT THE HELL

This should have been posted weeks ago but um, NaNoWriMo.

UNTIL THE NEXT TIME SOMETHING WEIRD HAPPENS TO ME, I bid thee adieu. Or adios, or auf Wiedersehen, or FREAKIN BYE, GUYS.