I knew I was supposed to stare at the red light. I heard the nurse say it four times, and the doctor said it twice. I was with three other guys that were in line for the surgery, and between the nervous jokes and introductions, we all agreed that we were to stare at some magical red light. Our beacon to sanity. Since they weren’t passing out the drugs.
Drugs and Eyeballs
My mom, brother, cousin and several other friends all had this surgery. Every time they talked about it, two things reoccurred: 1. it was the best decision of their lives and 2. don’t worry about the anxiety…they give you Valium. I swear to God on what I am about to write… every single one of them shrugged off my question with a hand gesture. Like this: “don’t worry (wave of hand like it’s no big deal) they give you drugs to relax. You won’t even remember it.”
They have to. Of course they have to. I would like to say that I am one of those people that don’t like things poking in my eye; fingers, needles, blades and lasers. However, I think that is a common feeling for most folks. Right? My only concern going into the surgery that day was that they give me enough drugs. Not that I am a junkie waiting for my next fix. But I am big (6ft1). I have a tolerance to drugs, and I have a threshold to pain and I never want them to fight. I want my pain and my drugs to just make sweet love. Once the nurse told me this was a “drug-free zone,” I was reduced to the likes of an over-dependent whimpering newborn ripped away from her mother.
No valium. I could only hold on to the memory of a friend who asked me if I wanted one of her klonopins. When she asked I just waved my hand and said, “no they’ll give me something.”
No valium. There is this general and natural fear and anxiety about lasers probing your eyeballs, and they take away the one thing that was supposed to relieve the fear and anxiety. The one comforting thought was just a joke. What kind of sadistic assholes do this? One guy didn’t know. So when he said that he couldn’t wait for the valium because he was so nervous. I just shook my head and said, “you don’t know? They don’t give us valium here.” I have seen a man’s face lose all color and turn to ash grey and white, but he was having a stroke. I’ve never seen a face lose all color and blood in seconds due to fear.
No valium. So if they say to look at the red light then I am going to look as hard as I can. I am going to hug that red light with all my concentration and pray “don’t let me go don’t let me go.” So I lay down to let them perform the procedure wide awake. A procedure I vowed never to do after watching my mom go through hers. I was in their hands and they already had two strikes against them. They said no drugs, and they forgot to give me the squeeze toy to hold while the procedure was being performed. I was too scared to remind them. So I just stuck my nails into my legs. They clamped my eyes open, They put the machine over my face. There was nothing to see except a tunnel with a blue light circling it, and that beautiful red light.
I stared at the red light.
“Keep staring at the red light.”
I’m staring at the red light.
“You’re doing a good job. Keep staring.”
You guys didn’t give me drugs or a squeezie thing, you sick fucks. I wished I had used the bathroom before they started. I’m staring at the red light.
Then the light disappeared.
Son of a bitch.
I fucked up. I had to.
Where is that light.
There was a great pressure and the idea and shape of pain. The red light was replaced with many lights of all different shades of orange and golds. It reminded me of lying in the sun when I was a kid. I would look into the sky and then quickly close my eyes to see dots that fluttered away from my concentration. Bubbles of orange and gold sun and the wind just blew it away.
Settled. I’m having a flashback.
I started to hear the science fiction sounds of beeps and twirls, and I couldn’t distinguish if this was the procedure going right or wrong. I finally worked up enough sane energy to tell the big German doctor that the red light was gone. I heard a voice cut through my flashback and say that I was doing a good job.
So maybe the “me” under the laser was still doing a good job, but the flashback me was fighting between year 1990 when I was a child and 2090. Then I heard a polite female robot voice declared “30 seconds into procedure.” Well there I go. Congratulations to me for surviving one of the more horrific 30 seconds I have ever experienced. Awake. Only four minutes and 30 more seconds left. I really should have used the bathroom before this started.
However good news! The red light came back. Who knows where it went or even where I went, but I hugged it with my eyes. This time I didn’t let go until they put the sweet bandaged over the right one. And everything repeated itself again.
The nurse gave me the drops and some raccoons and sent me on my way. The raccoons clawed at my eyes continuously. Since my dad was driving me back to my parents’ house an hour away, I had no choice but to listen to his horrible music. The raccoons crawled into my ears and clawed away my inner ears and brain as well.
Lasik surgery. The day after. Best decision ever. I hope I never have to do it again. If you are thinking about having lasik surgery then prepare. Bring your own drugs. Or have some loose experience with hallucinogens.
Jim, Jimmy, James Darmody,
I have to admit that I think I kept watching Boardwalk Empire because of you. How sexy can one man be? Really though…you crossed over from tough guy to just being an ass, and after it was revealed that you had sex with your mother, where could your chacter go? Two bullets in the head and a long cold sleep in the mud. You did it to yourself. You ruined the show and maybe my life.
Some people signal war from watchtowers with bells.
Some signal war with drums.
I gathered all my information on this topic from the last two episodes of Game of Thrones.
I am going to war and my battle cry is silence. You should not hear nor see me this week as I battle booze, temptation and friends for the ultimate goal, ONE WEEK OF SOBRIETY!
I mean a school week, not an actual week. Five days; not seven. Let’s be clear on who is the enemy. And note my stature; I am not an epic beast of a knight that gallops into battle with my sword blazing for blood. If you were to describe me going into war against booze I would be like the half-man Tyrion, after he got his face sliced open. (HBO style; not Martin Style) To be honest I am like him if, hypothetically, he stood up and tried to throw a punch after that treacherous attack.
No more Game of Thrones. I’ve over it.
Sometimes I toy with the idea of comparing my lifestyle and alcohol consumption to that of someone with a completely opposite and heavily domesticated lifestyle. For whatever reason, I always picture a man living out in the deep country in North Alabama. I might do this because I knew these types. They were my neighbors, and the word “neighborhood” is a loose defintation. The houses spread out for acres with hundreds of trees between them.
Most of the men did manual labor and came home every night and drank beer. They would have their friends over who were different variations of that same guy. And that guy is just a guy that is content with not leaving Read’s Mill. I like to think they define the word “content” loosely.
These guys were the ones gossiped about by my mom and her friends. The wilder ones. They were looked down on for all that beer-drinking. They were judged coldly for not attending church and fighting in their yard all hours of night.
I have weeks and weekends with social events and fun. I take everything in stride. However, after a few weeks of too much drinking, shows and wicked happy-hours, I start to think about those guys. I think about the look of disdain as my mom huffed in response to a story about them. My body starts to feel swollen. My head frayed. And the guilt just drags behind me.
I could be them. I live in the city rather than the country. I drink when I’m out at shows not in my doublewide trailer. I drink with my buddies and not with my 2-7 children.
However, when I start to see the comparison between those rednecks and me, I know it’s time to lay low. When I can see my mom’s face and hear her haunting, disdainful voice, I know it’s time to take a break and dry the bones.
Everything in this post will be very redundant if you know me in real life because I am just summing up the most important things about me, which is one poor raccoon. I will get to that but to begin with…
This is me on any given day of work when I don’t play a show the night before or stay up way past my bedtime hanging out with Mr. Foolery. If this picture looks a tiny bit staged it is because, well, it is. It is used for a power-point presentation for library school and maybe a blog I wrote for some folks about creeps at the library.
That angle, those stacked books, the calm demeanor. chipped pink nail polish. That calm demeanor. That calm demeanor. That calm demeanor. Clearly staged.
This is my friend and co-worker Thomas as we share our daily lollipop break. Only during the summer do we wear these shirts. Usually I am dressed more like the above picture. Dress. Tights. Dress. Tights. It is my library uniform.
We are only as tough as we want to be. To be exact, these shirts are the most fantastic summer reading shirts I have ever had the pleasure of wearing while serving the public. Because this shirt is simply
A raccoon driving a car that is a book, on a fireball. Through space. His eyes look so focus and happy that I know he has no clue his journey can only end in some horrific crash. Dream big yes. But dream cautious as well.
There is a man so enormous that the earth shook with each step.
And by the earth I mean the library.
Can I define slow?
Each step was a page. 10 steps were a chapter.
Slow is fine. Enormous is fine. However, he is a Medusa in disguise. The bitch, using the flesh of obesity to torture us open-hearted librarians.
So we transform to actors.
We must look busy;
too busy to look up
because if he catches your eyes as he oozes by, then he has you, locked into a mundane conversation. I wish I wasn’t a participant. I wish I could sit on the bench by the door and watch us looking so intently in any direction other than at him. And he just desperately needs one of us to look at him so he can talk. Please someone just look at him so he can tell you how hot it is outside. I’ve been caught by him.
It might be the only time I’ve contemplated suicide.
One time I saw him somewhere other than the library. A laundry mat. I could only be more surprised if I saw him on a treadmill.
I saw Medusa smiling through all his flesh as he tried to make eye contact, but I am fast as shit.
I had already grabbed my clothes and headed out the doors before he could ask if worked at the library.
The next time he saw me he said, “I saw a girl that looked just like you at the laundry mat. You know how I knew it wasn’t you?”
“She had tattoos.”
My co-workers looked at me. I nodded and said “alright.”
They looked at him with the gravest of expressions. One co-worker nodded to reinforce my response. But we could all feel my tattoos burning under my sweater and long skirt. I prayed to them then. “Don’t give me away now tattoos. Don’t give me away now.”
Our director thought it was a good idea to get “A CONE OF SILENCE” so people can talk on their cell phones without leaving the library.
He got stuck in it. It took several librarians to pull him out. I am not sure how many but once I know I can perfect the joke that is only beginning to formulate in my mind.
DC Pierson: "Beautiful And Interesting" -
We want to be very beautiful
and very interesting
and we’re well aware that doing the kinds of things
which may render us truly interesting
may rob us of the time to work on the beauty part
has always come more easily to us.
we’ll just slowly alter the meanings…
Dear Fans of Young-Adult Fantasy,
I get you.
Sometimes I can be you.
I know on your bookshelves you have “1984,” “Kafka on the Shore,” “A Moveable Feast,” and some trendy non-fiction. But under your bed or tucked away in your closest, is your stash of Vampire Diaries, Fallen and other girl-narrated, girl-angst novels.
I bet I can find Twilight. I bet you even have the whole series, even the last one. I bet you read Breaking Dawn even if you couldn’t enjoy it in that cursed combination of irony and shame. You finished the series anyway. Now, I don’t “do” math but I bet you spent a small fortune buying those books along with that hefty collection of Sookie Stackhouse series by the always sensual and sinfully sexy Charlenne Harris.
If it smells like garbage, and if you could eat it then it would taste like garbage. A form of reading that could be considered dumpster diving for the literary lackluster. We read these books knowing we could be reading a more challenging book. It is our Jersey Shore, and there is nothing wrong with falling into some hot romance involving angels, vampires, fairies or the future.
So to all of you out there, let me suggest the “Unbecoming of Mara Dyer” by Michelle Hodkin.
You will read it in a day. It will make you wish you had a boyfriend. And if you have a boyfriend then it will make you wish he was hotter. And maybe had superpowers.
and my lack of hearing.
Her: Can you PLEASE look up “Rear Window?”
Me: I’m sorry what was the title?
Her: “mumble Window?”
Me: MMM I am pulling up several with that title…
Her: I said “REAR WINDOW”
Me: OH! I’m sorry. One second.
Her: You mean, YOU are not FAMILIAR with HITCHCOCK?
Me: Did she write Hunger Games?
bwammp, bwaammp bwaammp.