Almost free!

This is the transition lounge. It's where you wait to go home. Or more correctly, its where you wait for your paperwork so you can go home. Which can take a while, or so I'm told.

I didn't bother blogging breakfast because it was exactly the same as yesterday. Including the fruit salad that tastes all of pineapple, even though it contained no pineapple at all.

Morning number 2

Hopefully I will be discharged today,  where I may keep up this blog from the lovely Matheson household, or I may not.

Pain and stiffness not nearly as bad as I thought it would all be. This is a definite positive. Very dizzy, definite negative.

It turns out Edward's name is actually Adrian. I know this because he added me on Facebook. Which is some seriously impressive stalking when you consider I got his name wrong.

And here's me on day 3, with a guest appearance by my drains, because everyone wants to start their day with blood filled grenades.

Dinner!

Check it, my dinner was mostly edible! I didn't actually eat much because I didn't feel that flash but the kumara was good. Sadly it was missing ice cream so no dessert.

...Until Kirsty showed up with a chocolate cigar to celebrate my surgery. Sadly im not feeling all that well,  and im sweating buckets, so eating the cigar shall have to wait.

Lunch

What even is this? Answers on a postcard.

No, I didn't eat any of it.

The lady next door is having a tantrum. No idea why.

Christmas fucking bells

Someone is playing snoopys Christmas. And I still can't set fire to them with my mind. Clearly this upgrade didn't work.

Breakfast

It showed up at 830, being rice bubbles, two bits of bread (no attempt at toast) Fruit salad which looked to have some different fruit in it but tasted entirely of pineapple, and a juice box.

Pain is amping up slowly, very very tired.

Surgical team say I'll get out tomorrow, as expected.

The morning after

So tired. Hospital is loud and bright. They need to be feeding me asap or otherwise im going to muffin break.

Right side of my chest hurts really bad into the arm, left side is fine.

I don't have any diet coke and that is bad.

Night the first

Yay private room. No snorers.

Boo pain. Not enough drugs right now.

Hee they play Coast so I don't have to be without Rachel even here ;-)

Crash...

Now that the excitement is over, I am wrecked. And very hot. And sore. And the hospital only gives you an hour of wifi.

Bet you can guess what bit is worst.

Dinner

Hospital food. Gag. Tonight we have  uncooked "Asian greens"  (read: cabbage and spinach), undercooked carrot and parsnip, and spicy pork curry with boil in the bag  rice.

Not a fan of spicy food.

Also a vegetarian.

Ice cream for dinner!

Out of surgery

Covered in betadine and bandages and feeling very hot.

Told all went well. Im pretty happy. They gived me sammiches!

Someone want to give me a cricket update?

Last photo is Edward. Hope he's ok.

Part two

This is of course just after the last one because I am finally getting a chance to blog. Not for lack of waiting around (I arrived at 1030 and its now 1) but because I have been chatting with a cheerful guy named Edward. Seemed rude to blog and talk at the same time. plus I figure this will be much funnier when I am on drugs.

So I am all marked up and in a gown with a blanket and my teddy and I am waiiiiiiting.

Oh, and check out my sexy stockings

Surgery blog!

I'm having surgery today. And because im like that, I'm blogging it.

Picture 1.
me on the train heading to hospital. I am wearing all the lucky clothes I can think of, from superman undies to robot socks to the purple hoodie my friend Joey gave me.

If I look tired, I am. I had to get up at six to have breakfast, and thus my main feel is exhaustion. And thirst. I take meds which cause dry mouth and I cant drink anything.

Honey Badger Don't Give A Shit

I am a honey badger. You've all seen these, right, they're the badass looking things that kill lions by going for their balls and can basically withstand being killed by a cobra, then get up and eat the fucken thing.

They are angry, angry creatures.

I am a honey badger.

Now, part of the reason honey badgers are so angry is that they kill lions and eat snakes and all that and they end up with a lame-ass name like "Honey Badger". I'm a little upset I ended up with a name like Sam Jones because it shows I have a startling lack of originality.

But the main reason honey badgers are angry is because they are hungry. All the time.

Cos to have a metabolism that is swift enough to not let cobra venom kill them means that they have a metabolism that burns through food like your mum burns through skeevy boyfriends. (Oh yeah, I went there.)

Now I'm not stick-thin, but I'm at the lower end of a healthy BMI, and I am goddamn hungry. I have a black hole in my stomach that means I am never full ever and I can get so damn hungry I could kill a man by ripping off his balls and eating him.

But that would lead to awkward questions.

The worst thing about it is that once I reach a certain point in my hunger, I can no longer function well enough to actually decide to eat something. No matter the choices, there are too many. I stand in front of my pantry and suddenly it doesn't have anything I can eat quick enough. I stand in the supermarket and all of a sudden I'm thinking about how many calories something has, which I usually give less than zero fucks about. I walk down the street and everything is suddenly too expensive.*

I have abdicated all responsibility. I am a three year old, and I just want someone to hand me some food and go "Here, eat." There is actually nothing I wouldn't eat at that point, but I can't actually decide to eat any of it.

If this state lasts long enough I will cry. Then faint. Which is kind of a relief cos people look at you less funny if you pass out in the supermarket than if you're standing in front of the chips bawling your eyes out because you cannot decide if you want Rashuns or Kettle crisps.

So this is why the honey badger is angry. And why I am a honey badger.

And reason number 374 as to why I will never be a functioning adult.



*side note: I really think welfare should provide extra food allowance to those people who are stuck with the metabolism of a fourteen year old boy.

Don't fucking touch me

"Oh-wow-look-at-your-hair-can-I-touch-it?"

This is one reason I hate going out. That as soon as the time of night comes where drinking happens, I have random fucks grabbbing my hair.

I do have really pretty hair. It's thick and curly and reddish-gold. I appreciate that it's the first thing people notice about me.

But Jesus tapdancing Christ, if I get one more thirty-something year old woman coming up to me, asking to touch my hair at the same time as shoving their fingers in it, I will explode in a veritable  cluster-bomb of meat and bone, showering all and sundry with my sloppy innards.

Well, possibly.

And if I try telling someone I don't want their greasy-ass fingers raking through my locks, they get all huffy and upset and tell me to "relax" and "calm down, it's not like I'm assaulting you."

OH, I'M SORRY COMPLETE STRANGER, PLEASE, FEEL FREE TO TOUCH ME WHENEVER YOU WOULD LIKE.

No. Fuck that.

I would just shave it all off, but last time I did I got random fucks touching my head.

Current options are committing mass murder or staying home and surfing the internets every night for the rest of my life.

I'm tending towards the first option.

Oh fuck, I have a blog?

Okay, ya'll may have noticed I haven't been posting much. There is a simple reason for this...*

I can't do anything on anything which is connected to the internets without getting distracted by the internets every five seconds.

Seriously, I just reloaded my tumblr page twice while writing the last three sentences.

And once while writing that one.

You get the picture.

All this bodes ill for my future productivity in any form of employment which tangentially brushes up against internets. Which is all I'm qualified for. (See earlier points about me and a nail gun.)

I went out last weekend. This probably wan't the wisest idea because I drank beer I can't really afford and made questionable moves on the dance floor and some dude stood on me. It was on purpose too. Asshole.

I'm not sure why I really made this post. I started writing it half an hour ago. Fuck it, I'm gonna go make a sammich.

*The other reason was I had to write a story about zombies.

They let me out in public

Having had this nasty-ass coughing virus, I have had an excuse to sit on the couch playing mind numbing flash games till my eyes went red and the couch had a dent in the shape of  my arse.

However, this luxury could not continue, cos I had to go out of my house. I needed red bull, chips and strawberry jam. Apricot jam tastes heinous with peanut butter. I should know, I had two slices of it.

So, to the supermarket. I made a special effort, showered, put on a clean shirt - fuck, I even wore pants. I hadn't worn pants in a week.

My white-ass middle class suburb has a shitload of yummy mummy's around. They all have massive pushchairs for their spawn, which they park in the middle of the aisle so you can't get past. Then they chat to their friends about who-knows-what. Yoga pants probably. They were all wearing them.

I would have made some kind of snarky yet hilarious comment about the supermarket being their social highlight, but then I remembered I hadn't left my house in a week. I'm hardly the poster child for having a life.

I chose my checkout line poorly. It was staffed by Joan, who looks to be about 60, and is seriously the slowest checkout operator in the universe. I don't know how she manages it, but she takes three times as long as anyone else. It's as though she is actually in a parallel universe where time runs slower. And she insists on packing your groceries in plastic bags which she struggles to separate with her spitty fingers. I shudder.

The mummy behind me had a kid who looked about three. Old enough for it to be weird he's still in a pushchair, but young enough to stare straight into my soul for the five minutes it took for Joan to quit fucking around and take my money.

At first I tried to make him look away. Pulled scary faces, made serial killer eyes. Not happening. So then it was like a game, because I struggle with waiting patiently at the best of times. I made stupid faces, blew spit bubbles, anything to amuse this snotty little kid. And of course, right when I'm standing there scratching my armpit, mum looks up from her New Idea. Her jaw drops. I would blush if I had any sense of shame, but since I struggle with the whole "giving a shit" thing at the moment, I simply handed Slow Joan my money, and walked off, scratching my arse.

Yes, yummy mummy, in twenty-odd years your precious little baby could be just like me.

You have underestimated my laziness

I've had a nasty-ass coughing virus for the past week. The whole world should feel sorry for me.
When I complained to Mama on Sunday that I was too sick to cook dinner, she delicately pointed out -

"You know, if you lived by yourself you'd have to cook anyway, sick or not."

To which I replied "But if I was living by myself, I'd just have two minute noodles for dinner."

I neglected to tell her I'd likely be having two minute noodles even if I wasn't sick.

And no, I didn't cook dinner.

What is this, I don't even?

I'm the one all those pseudo-intellectual magazine articles warned you about.

Twenty five years old, Bachelor of Arts, unemployed. With makes me like approximately ten zillion other middle class kids who were promised that having a degree was the key to the kingdom. Any degree. Mine's in psychology. Really the only thing I learned was how to point out how sitcoms mangle mental illness, and the crucial fact I don't want to be a psychologist. I've been unemployed for four months. I've given up having job preference – I just want one which doesn't involve retail and does involve money.

My name's Sam.* I'm a boomerang baby – I live at home with my Mama, and she washes my socks. I like to think I'm doing her a favour by keeping her company, but really I'm just a reason she hasn't sold the house and gone travelling off into the sunset. Well, that and I inherited my organisational inability from her. She hasn't done a wardrobe cleanout in seven years.

What other scientifically framed but suspiciously inflammatory magazine articles do I represent?

Well, back in the ninties, there was much handwringing over the phenomenon of medicated kids. What were we doing, giving drugs to little kiddies who were just being boisterous? What was this, pills rather than parenting?

I've been on ADHD meds on and off since I was nine. Currently, I'm on. Hell, I'm on so many pills I rattle. Pills for the depression, the ADHD, the insomnia. I'm not sure if I even have a personality anymore, it's all side effects.

Right now, my life is flash games, job applications, and Tumblr. In the last two months I've applied for 30 jobs, and gotten none. Most of them don't even give you a form refusal. Especially the Aussie ones. Rude.

I know, the whole global economy is in the toilet. But BOOTSTRAPS you know. I could just go work in Christchurch. If I was some kind of builder. Which I'm not. No one in their right mind would let me near a nail gun.

It's all part of the lie, that having a degree is worth something. Anyone can get a degree – even morons. So on paper I'm indistinguishable from a moron. So any employer wants to know if you've been employed before, so they know you can show up and wear pants and generally not act like a moron in the workplace. Employers call this experience. Of which I have none.

My real distinguishing feature is that I look like a sixteen year old. With my luck medical science will declare this some kind of disorder and medicate me for it. Benjamin Button syndrome or something. This allows me to save money on public transport because I get child fare, but it's a pain in the arse when I want a beer.

I'm blogging my journey to adulthood, that blissful time when I'll somehow know how to keep my room tidy, not burn anything I cook, how to drive, and generally have my shit together. 

Yeah, I'm an amoral, obnoxious, apathetic twenty-something who has no idea how to be a real adult.

You wanna know what the ritalin generation are like as grown-ups? Well, here I am.

* Note to everyone who knows me, this is partly fictionalised. Obviously. Because I'm trying to preserve my anonymity, and I'll change names to protect the moronic innocent. But most of all because it makes a better story. To everyone else – the details may be fudged, but the ridiculous bits are true.